


Everything That Rises

by RedSkittleQueen



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: AU, Angst, Dark, Drama, Dub!Con, Jack accepts Pitch's proposal, M/M, Redemption, non!con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSkittleQueen/pseuds/RedSkittleQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Jack couldn't help but remember the desolate stretches of ice, and the offer that had been made there. A Jack-accepts-Pitch's-proposal story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything That Rises

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

 

 **A.N:** This is a Pitch-Jack centric story, because I adore exploring every ounce of their twisted relationship. This isn't a happy, roses-and-butterflies tale. It gets dark, people. You've been warned. If that's not your poison, mosey on along. It's also rated M for sexual situations, so no immature readers.

 

 **A.N#2:** A sincere, heartfelt thanks to **Nevervana** for beta-ing. I suggest you all check her works and her beta profile! And a special thanks to **HadaGracia** for pointing out my misspelling of Jamie's name.

 

 **A.N#3:** Written to pretty much all of Thomas Newman's works, especially "And Then There Was Snow" from _The Horse Whisperer_ and "Revolutionary Road" from _Revolutionary Road._

 

.

 

You'll stand aside as a great complexity intrudes, tearing apart, piece by piece, all of your carefully conceived denials, whether deliberate or unconscious. And then for better or worse you'll turn, unable to resist, though try to resist you still will, fighting with everything you've got not to face the thing you most dread, what is now, what will be, what has always come before, the creature you truly are, the creature we all are, buried in the nameless black of a name.

 _—_ Mark Z. Danielewski, _House of Leaves_

 

.

 

Everything That Rises

 

.

 

"They'll believe in both of us."

The words hung in the still, frozen air with all the delicacy of burning pearls. Pitch leaned forward, shoulders hunched in clear supplication, metallic eyes wide as they searched Jack's face in eager passes. The intense gaze was unsettling. The words burrowed into the winter spirit's mind like maggots, latching on and refusing to let go.

_Believe. I believe in you. In both of us._

The encouragement stood in startling contrast to the Guardians' clear _we should've never have trusted him_ dismissal. How close Bunnymund had been to hitting him. Though the blow never landed, it had still knocked the wind straight from Jack's lungs. The rabbit's eyes swam with unspeakable hurt, ears flattening as he turned his back to the winter spirit. _What have you done?_ The silence which followed had been worse than Bunnymund's words. Jack remembered how Tooth had covered her mouth with both hands, beautiful eyes growing round. It had been she who recognized the memory-case in his grasp, its presence and all its implications unconscionable. And North, the one who built the strongest case for him, who supported him, who believed him a Guardian when all others didn't, who was the closest thing to a father Jack could remember, refused to meet his eyes, staring right through him as if he were—

Invisible.

Jack turned away, gritting his teeth at the injustice of it all. How could the entire fate of Easter rest on him? Why couldn't they give him a chance to explain? He hadn't meant for anything bad to happen, hadn't meant to stay in Pitch's lair for so long. He looked around at the inhospitable wasteland, the familiar lost, helpless feeling tightening its claws around his throat. It was the same feeling he got when he looked up at the Moon. Why couldn't he do anything right? Why did everything he touch fall apart? He glanced back. The Boogeyman was still regarding him with a predator's focus. He was waiting, waiting for him. Jack recalled the feather-light touch of the long fingers on his shoulder when the Nightmare King pointed to the towering ice sculpture and crowed _Look at what we can do!_

"Do you really think so?" Jack asked, shifting his weight between fight and flight. He remained in an animal's crouch, born of suspicion and wariness.

When Pitch smiled, it held the warmth of the sun. "I know so."

Jack found himself standing on a precipice, torn between his heart and his head. _This is a trick,_ the small voice inside of him whispered. _Don't do this._ As if sensing his indecision Pitch glided closer until his chest almost brushed against Jack's back, circling behind. Jack tensed, stiffening, feeling the Boogeyman's presence as if it were oil down his spine. He tried shifting away but his legs didn't want to move, as if they'd been paralyzed. He could feel the other breathing on him. The Nightmare King thankfully didn't touch him again; Jack would've fled right then and there if he did. He felt as if two forces were pulling him, threatening to tear him in two. One sudden move and he would bolt.

"Our path is the same, Jack. We both want the same thing." There was something hungry in Pitch's gaze as he watched the winter spirit. It was tempered before Jack could really notice it, softened. " _They_ were the ones who blamed you for their failures. _They_ were the ones who turned their backs on you. It's only natural for you to feel this way. They've had their fun. Now it's our turn."

"If I do this, what will happen to the others?" Jack asked. He turned, hands on staff.

"Nothing," Pitch said with a little twitch of his head. He looked beyond the winter spirit at the ice floes drifting in the ocean, staring at something beyond Jack's sight. Jack became aware of how out of place the shadow was. He stood like soot against the Antarctic ice, a tall and sinuous stain. Jack was granted the rare sight of the Boogeyman's feet every time he took a step. The legs were slim, sheathed in matt shadow, built for noiseless gliding and quick getaways; even on the crusty, brittle ice he made no sound as he circled Jack. The dovetailed robes followed him like the shadow he never cast. "The Guardians are almost done, their powers at an end. Soon they will be nothing but myths."

"Will they . . ." Jack couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Disappear?" Pitch's eyes glinted as he studied the immortal teenager. His was a predator's focus, holding Jack in place with its weighted regard. "No. Not entirely. We never truly go. But it's time they remember what it feels like not to be written off." He coughed to soothe the sudden growl in his voice and gave a little wave of his hand, as if to dismiss the whole subject. "But we needn't worry about them. Their time is done; ours has just begun. What do you say?"

Pitch's words eased the ache of the Guardians' disappointment. Jack chewed on the inside of his cheek. The clamor in his heart drowned out the tiny, niggling voice in the back of his head. He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. _I know what it's like to want to be believed in,_ Pitch had said. Raw. Yearning. _To long for a family._

His hands tightened on the staff.

"Alright."

Pitch froze, eyes widening. Then a wide smile threatened to split the charcoal face in two. " _Excellent_."

Jack's eyes darted. The sun hadn't exploded. The earth still turned. He relaxed in increments. "So . . . what now?"

"Nothing!" Pitch said. He seemed to burst from his skin, beaming his crooked grin. smile showing every tooth in his head. Jack experienced a little pang of regret at the sight, shifting his weight from foot to foot to relieve his discomfort. Pitch pranced away from Jack towards the ice sculpture, reminding the winter spirit of a fox he once witnessed leaving a henhouse. It had killed every chicken inside and made off with two, a ring of white feathers still clinging to its bloody muzzle. Pitch even had the same yellow eyes. "Absolutely nothing. Do what you do best and stay unnoticed for a couple of days. Until the unpleasant business with the Guardians is complete, of course."

"What will you do to them?" Jack asked. A part of him didn't want to know. _I should be with them,_ the small voice said, but a greater part, the louder part, said, _They don't want you._

Pitch rolled a shoulder. "Nothing the children haven't done already." Before Jack could say anything more, he added, "Oh. Here. I almost forgot."

With a casual underhand, he tossed something Jack's way, something that flashed a iridescent green in the blanched air and squeaked when he caught it on reflex. It weighed no more than a flower in his hand. He uncurled his fingers and felt a thrill of mingled joy, relief, and guilt.

"Baby Tooth!" He held her close to his face. "Are you alright?"

The mini fairy shivered in his cupped hand. The Antarctic bleakness had leached the luster from her feathers. Her dragonfly wings were crumbled tissue paper, rumpled and unmoving. Jack instantly thought of Tooth and her decay as the children of the world stopped believing in her. The thought of the cheerful Guardian sent a pang through his heart. It hurt to think of her. How eager she'd been when he first met her at the Pole, how welcoming. He held the little fairy near his chest in meager comfort and shot a narrowed look at Pitch.

"What did you do to her?"

The Boogeyman shrugged, indolent. "Does it matter?"

The tiny ball of feathers started squeaking with the fury of a thousand chew-toys. Jack tried to calm her with muttered, "It's okay, Baby Tooth, it's okay," but she was implacable. She chirruped and chattered a storm, shaking a tiny fist Pitch's way. The Nightmare King seemed amused, watching the little fairy's fury with a maddening half-smile. His reaction seemed to rile her up more. She was nearly apoplectic, stamping her little feet on Jack's palm, her squeaks reaching dog-whistle range. The longer the warm little weight flailed in his hand, the more apparent the awful truth became. He frowned down at her.

"You can't fly," he murmured in horrified wonder.

"Her powers, along with her queen's, are gone." Pitch turned, fingertips ghosting the shimmering surface of the ice sculpture. His tone was distant, features softened with enthrallment as he continued, "I will come for you in several days time. Remember what I said. And don't worry, Jack; we will make the children of the world believe. _Oh_ , how we will." Then he was gone, fading like smoke from an extinguished candle.

Jack stood in the yawning desolation of the Antarctic wasteland, clutching Baby Tooth as if she was his last tether to the world. Perhaps she was. Her wrath seemed to bleed from her as she slumped in his palm and began to shiver. She felt impossibly warm for something so tiny, but Jack knew the cold wouldn't be defied for long. He had to take her away from here. Away from him. Jack looked away, the hurt and frustration from before threatening to spill over. She wasn't a part of his world anymore. She had a family, was part of a cohesive unit. She belonged to a Guardian; she had no business with a screw up who couldn't even make a single child see him. He took a few deep breaths to calm the prickling sting of tears behind his eyes and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out the memory-case and looked down at the cause of all his misery. It seemed such a miniscule thing. So harmless. _Jack,_ it seemed to whisper in the voice he could both remember and not remember, but he'd had enough. His pursuit of the tiny golden case had ruined his chances with the Guardians, perhaps for all time. With a single, vicious throw, his body torqued as he hurled the memories as hard as he could beyond the floes. He watched them disappear into the ocean with the tiniest of _plop_ s, the dark water swallowing his sacrifice with the quietest of murmurs. Baby Tooth was close to tearing her feathers out, squeaking distress. He gently slipped her in the nook of his neck, bundling her up in the hoodie's folds. He could feel her tiny hands on his cheek.

"I know," Jack said, voice dull. "I know."

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

It had been centuries since Pitch felt this genuinely happy. Giddy, even, like a child at Christmas as he'd capered atop North's darkening globe. A day had passed since his last confrontation with the fallen Guardians. How delightfully _awful_ they appeared. Oh, how he relished Tooth's drooping feathers and motionless wings, relished Bunnymund's metamorphosis into an insecure, harmless fluff ball. Best of all, North's famous vitality had withered to a shadow of what it once was. Ha! The fool could hardly pick up his swords, hobbling about like an old man. How glorious was he now? The leader of the Guardians lifted his chin when Pitch came to gloat, proud to the end, too pig-headed to know he'd been beat. All of them were. They had lost their grip on the children of the world, and all it took was a few unchanged teeth, one failed Easter egg hunt, and the removal of the Sandman. They'd even lost their precious Jack Frost. Out of all the Guardians the Sandman had posed the greatest threat to him, but he was gone, taken care of. He wouldn't be bothering Pitch for a great long while, not when nightmares plagued the children. _How do the mighty fall,_ Pitch had thought as he gazed upon them, delirious with joy. He hadn't lied to Frost: it was time the Guardians learned what it meant to be unbelieved. Let them have a taste of bitter ash and hopelessness. At least, until the day he finished them the way he did poor ole Sandy.

But that could come later, once he decided they'd suffered enough. He could be merciful, after all.

Perhaps the greatest aspect of his triumph was Jack Frost. Pitch had prepared for the worst, ready to use the little fairy as hostage should Frost turned him down, but to his delighted surprise, the child had accepted his proposal. The winter spirit had the worst habit of interfering, and Pitch felt deep in his bones his success over the Guardians was due in part to Frost's inaction. His plan couldn't have gone better. Centuries of being psychologically adrift had left the child's fears laughably easy to read. It had been simple to offer the balm to Frost's pain, to plant his words in the boy's ear and watch his words grow in his heart. Not all of what Pitch had said had been false. He did long for a family, did wish with all of his being to be acknowledged, had experienced the hard, aching loneliness few could ever imagine. But Frost had experienced the loneliness. He could empathize with Pitch, and the Boogeyman was above all else an opportunist. Both had felt the lash of the same whip, and that tied them together in ways few could comprehend.

Pitch looked up from where he stood on the cliff's edge. Wind-swept Scotland stretched at his back like a craggy blanket, and before him, miles upon miles of unbroken sea, painted silver from the moonlight. It was a lonely crag overlooking the North Sea, one he'd grown particularly fond of over the centuries. Its inhabitants had abandoned it around the time of the viking raids, if Pitch's memory served correctly. Nasty business, the Norse raiders were. The fear they caused had been a barbarous, bowel-gripping one, a little sloppy for Pitch's taste. _Like lemmings to the sea,_ the Nightmare King thought, recalling the humans' mass migration. Mortals' fears were simpler, baser, almost always connected with death, as opposed to the more richly varied fears of immortals steeped in eternity, existential crises, and probably madness. He pulled in a deep breath, relishing the heavy salty scent from the ocean. Beneath it all was the tang of seaweed on the rocks below, and beneath that, the cool aroma of grass beneath his heels. But tonight there was a different flavor in the air. Victory was a spice upon the breeze, infectious and red-hot.

Pitch was pulled from his musings, suddenly aware of the moonlight. He blinked, noticing how it seemed to congeal on him. The full moon hung low in the sky, immense and glowing, as if sagging under its own weight. Pitch glowered and jabbed a long finger at it.

"Oh no, ohhh no you don't. He's _mine,_ " he said, baring his uneven teeth in an animal's snarl. "You've taken everything from me; you'll not have him too." He could feel the Moon's reproving glare. The helpless anger sent Pitch in paroxysms of laughter. "Don't look at me like that! I know your powers are weakened, right along with your precious Guardians. I've worked too long and hard for you to mess things up. Keep your nose out."

"He talks to you, too?"

Pitch whirled. He hadn't heard Frost's approach. For an instant he was afraid. How much had the child heard? But as he watched the winter spirit for a flash of anger, a twitch of betrayal, he saw nothing. Frost seemed ethereal in the moonlight, his hair and skin as white as salt. The staff was propped against a shoulder, nonthreatening. Pitch couldn't believe his good fortune: he was supposed to be the one to fetch Jack, but the winter spirit seeking him out exceeded his wildest expectations. He would have to tread carefully, of course. The Guardians had made the mistake of crowding him, of not give him space to adjust. Pitch would be patient. Patience he knew. He would wear away Frost's suspicion and wariness like the tide wore a rocky shoreline into sand. Pitch straightened and composed himself. He flicked a glance at the little fairy tucked next to Frost's neck. He was relieved her incessant chattering had ceased, otherwise he would've gladly thrown her off the cliff into the roiling waters below. He matched her angry glower with an indifferent one of his own. _He's mine now, little fairy,_ he said to her through his gaze, _not yours any longer._

"We've known each other for a long time," Pitch said, picking his words with a jeweler's care, flicking his eyes back to Frost's. "It's inevitable we cross words."

Frost moved closer, the blue moonlight highlighting his pale features. There was something wary in the way he closed the distance between them; it was like watching a delicate wild thing, graceful and lithe. Pitch couldn't help but admire the nimble, cautious movements, something like hunger stirring inside him. But the dark spirit knew better than to think the child fragile, or weak. He knew what lurked beneath the boyish veneer. There was power there, awesome and terrible. He'd seen it when Frost unleashed his grief and anger at the Sandman's death. There was such raw potential in the winter spirit Pitch felt his guts twist with a sudden fear at losing him. No. Frost was his now, his to mold as he saw fit.

Frost was speaking again, voice low and conflicted. "He spoke to the others, but not to me. Even when—when I _asked._ Why doesn't he just tell me things? Like who I am? Why no one can see me? I mean, how can I fix something if I don't even know the cause of the problem?"

Beneath all the frustration Pitch could read the exquisite pain. He drank it like he would a fine wine, knowing every malcontent Frost felt would only bind him tighter to his purposes. The Boogeyman dared not let his thoughts show on his face. He schooled his expression into an appropriately sympathizing one, keeping himself quarter-turned so he could admire Frost from the corner of one eye. He kept quiet. He'd seen similar treatment work on horses in the most interesting of fashions. Rebuff the errant beast and in some twisted way it yearned for the thing it could not obtain; and so it would approach, meek and compliant. Immortals weren't horses, but as Pitch made neither sound or motion, enough of the psychology held true. Frost moved closer, stopping within a hand's reach, giving the Nightmare King a chance to measure the clean line of a jaw, the pale features, his mind awhirl with possibilities of the future. Of the world they could create.

The next question was inevitable. Pitch had been waiting for it since Frost landed on the cliff.

"Do you know? I mean, about me? Why I'm like this?"

Pitch turned fully. He found Frost looking at him with an expression so imploring, so exposed, the Nightmare King was caught off-guard. No creature had given him suck a look in a millennia or two, and for a split moment in time its intoxicating regard wiped his coherency. He had prepared for this moment, dreamt of it, even obsessed over it, but now that it was here, staring up at him, all he could do was drink in the naked yearning and forget all else.

When Pitch remembered himself, he blinked and looked elsewhere. "Unfortunately, I don't have the answer." He coughed to clear the catch in his voice. He turned away again, clasping his hands behind his back. The foolish child probably never opened the memory-case. Pitch was glad he didn't. Though he had no idea what memories the teeth held, the less outside force influencing Frost, the better. "That is between you and the Moon."

Frost was crestfallen. He looked across the sea, his disappointment as easy to read as a well-worn book. "Oh."

"But that doesn't mean I can't help you discover yourself, Jack."

The winter spirit eyed him as he would a live grenade, cautious. "You would?"

Pitch shrugged a shoulder. "Isn't that what friends are for?"

"Oh, so we're friends now?"

"Of course!" Pitch said, not liking Frost's skepticism, but deciding to let it pass. "I scratch your back, you scratch mine. Or so the humans say."

A little silence fell between the two immortals, the crash of the distant surf filling the lull. Out of the corner of his eye Pitch caught Frost staring out across the silvered water, expression lost, the cool breeze ruffling the stark white hair. The little fairy had buried herself deeper into the folds of the hoodie, miserable. Pitch fed off her sadness, keenly enjoying himself. She looked as dejected as her queen had been. How ugly her feathers were, even in the silver moonlight. The Nightmare King resisted the urge to smile, knowing he'd probably scare Frost away with his half-mad grin.

"What does the Man in the Moon say to you?" Frost asked suddenly.

That was unexpected. Pitch's mouth wrinkled before he could stop himself. He pursed his lips, as if he'd swallowed something bitter. "Most things unpleasant, I assure you. We don't see eye-to-eye. For instance, I would've left your memories intact."

"You would've?"

"Jack, _Jaaack_ ," Pitch said, shaking his head. "My old friend was cruel to leave you alone with nothing but a name and a riddle: why were you chosen. Why you are unable to reach out to anyone. Why you can't seem to do anything right."

At the last part Frost looked at him sharply, eyes narrowed, but Pitch wasn't paying attention. He was staring up at his old adversary, feeling the Moon glare in mute reproval. _You make this too easy,_ Pitch thought, almost delirious with satisfaction. This was almost too much fun. He should've done this centuries ago, when Frost was riper for the taking. He could do this all day.

"Have you seen the Guardians? Do you know where they are?"

Pitch struggled to hide his annoyance. _Patience,_ he told himself. It was only natural for the child to feel some sort of misplaced loyalty. _Let him see how weak they are. What harm could it do?_

"No doubt crawled back to their respective holes. We'll probably be seeing them again in a century or so."

Pitch didn't believe a word he'd just said, of course. His exile had no respite, no break from the unending loneliness. Human memories were fickle. In time they'd forget about the Tooth Fairy, the Sandman, the Easter Bunny, and even Santa Claus, just as they'd forgotten about him. It took time and dedication to get the mortal world to believe in an immortal, none of which the remaining Big Four had. They were weak, powerless. They were at his mercy. Pitch would have to be cautious, though. If he covered the world with too much darkness and misery, he knew humanity would start grasping towards hope and light, as they'd done at the end of the Dark Ages. Their inherent idealistic nature would revive the Guardians to their former glory, something Pitch wished to avoid at all costs. No. He had learned from his past mistakes. He would kill the Guardians as he did Sandy, but later, when they'd suffered their ineptitudes for a time. There was no rush. He had all the time in the world, thanks to Jack Frost.

The Boogeyman was so caught up in his brooding he almost didn't catch the question, low and hesitant and oddly hopeful:

"Do you remember? When, you know, you became this way?"

Pitch's complacency evaporated like water striking desert sand. He stiffened. He tried to pull comfort from the briny air, but found it'd lost its delightful flavor. In truth, he didn't know why he was the Boogeyman. He just woke up one day in what was his lair now and knew without utter, solid certainty he was the Nightmare King, the Lord of Shadows, the monster under the bed.

He simply _was._

But there were no memories, no explanation. Pitch was no fool. He knew he'd had a life before immortality, but unlike Frost, he wasn't about to go begging the feathered tart for the reason. If there were any memories to be had, of course; he was old, older than all of the Guardians combined, already ancient when the Tooth Fairy started collecting her trinkets. He'd been around since the dawn of man, watching them paint their cave walls and huddle around their fires, their terrors as pure and simple as freshly fallen snow. As the ages passed it was like watching ants in a farm, each less significant than the other. Pitch doubted he would ever truly know who he was before, or who made him. His earlier giddiness congealed and hardened. He was no better than the child beside him, but he'd die before admitting it.

He turned his head away so Jack couldn't see his expression. "That's not a subject I like discussing."

Stiff grass crimped under bare feet as Frost retreated a step. "Never mind, then. Sorry I asked."

Suddenly Pitch was filled with the unshakeable urge to be left alone, unprepared for the childlike existentialism. The questions the boy were stirring up were striking him in places he had forgotten were vulnerable. "Leave me," he said. When Frost didn't move, he softened his tone. "Please."

The Boogeyman felt more than heard the winter spirit depart. There was a rushing uplift of cold wind, then nothing. The highland cliffside was as empty as ever, the tough grasses rustling all around. Solitude was his once again, emptier, its tang bitter. He snapped a glare at the Moon, hating its knowing aura. It seemed to be gloating. He curled a lip.

"Oh, shut up."

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

Jack was worried about Baby Tooth. She hadn't squeaked or moved since Scotland, and flying over the Atlantic Ocean wasn't exactly a good place to stop. Was she too cold? He tried keeping her bundled up in the folds of his hoodie, away from his skin, but he couldn't be sure. Twice he made sure she was there, brushing over her feathers with nervous fingers. He zoomed as fast as he could towards the only place he could remotely call home: the town of Burgess. Was it home? He didn't know. He didn't know anything anymore. It was still nighttime when the winter spirit touched toes on the Founder's statue, statue, balancing on the balls of his feet with a dancer's grace. Jack removed the little fairy from his hoodie as if handling a rare orchid. She was so tiny in his hand. So still. His heart ached.

"Baby Tooth? Hey there, Baby Tooth. You okay?"

The little pink eyelids opened. She peered at him. Leaving Antarctica and the cold winds of the highlands did her wonders. She fluffed out her feathers and patted the meat of his thumb, lighter than a butterfly's kiss. Relief flooded Jack like hot milk. He smiled down at her, not realizing this was the first time since Bunnymund's warren that he'd truly relaxed. But thoughts of the warren led to thoughts of Easter, and Antarctica, and everything that had led him there. Like clouds overtaking the sun his smile faded, snuffing the brief spark of joy as it went.

He sighed. "Don't worry; I'll take you back to the Palace soon."

She drew herself up in his palm, arms crossed, beak in the air, and shook her head with a chirrup. Not quite comprehending, Jack blinked down at her. She couldn't mean—after everything that had happened?

"What? You—you want to stay with me?"

The little fairy nodded rapidly.

Jack's frown and raised her to eye level. "Why? Baby Tooth, I failed you. All of you. I messed up. Easter—"

Baby Tooth began to squeak vehemently, shaking her little plumed head and stomping. It was like suffering a field mouse's rage. Jack couldn't help but feel a little cowed, not so much by the ferocity of her protests, but by the defense itself. Though powerless and bedraggled and no taller than his index finger, she still raged with a she-eagle's fierceness. For him.

Despite himself Jack laughed, the sonorous noise rolling across the silent town. "Okay, okay, you've made your point! I got it, I got it."

 _She still believes in me,_ Jack thought as his mirth simmered into chuckles. _She really does._ He'd forgotten how good it felt to laugh. It was if golden lights on North's globes lit up in his chest, heating him straight to the core. His next smile was tempered, softer, but no less genuine. He was suddenly very glad she wanted to stay with him. Maybe there was still hope of rejoining the Guardians. _You're with Pitch now, remember?_ the little voice inside of him said, screeching all thoughts of redemption to a halt. His smile faded. What the hell was he doing? He was living in a house of mirrors, his reflection warped almost beyond recognition. Up was down, evil was good. It was a surreal dream he kept expecting to wake from. He still couldn't believe a few hours ago he was talking to the Nightmare King, together, as equals, not as enemies. They hadn't even tried killing each other. Just talked. Though Jack had tried to keep distance, he couldn't help but be intrigued by Pitch's words. If Pitch was evil, why did everything he say feel right? It'd happened before— _Maybe, I want what you have: to be believed in—_ when Jack heard the same echo of his own heart's desires. It hadn't seemed right to mention it to the other Guardians—empathy with the enemy? They'd kick him out for sure. _He said he'd help me find out who I am,_ Jack thought. _Why I'm me._ His desire for the truth almost choked him with its enormity. Hanging with the Big Four hadn't shed any light about on his reason of being. Maybe Pitch would. He had tried everything else; why not this?

Jack pulled away from his thoughts as he realized Baby Tooth was still looking at him, expectant. She, like Pitch, was waiting for him. For an answer? For acceptance? Jack didn't know. He hugged her to his chest, still careful not to crush her, but the overwhelming urge to clutch another living creature almost undid him.

"You understand I won't be able to keep you warm. It's gonna be cold where I go. _Wherever_ I go."

Her face scrunched in to a look of stoic determination. She wasn't budging.

Jack's last great reservation bled away. "Thanks, Baby Tooth" he said. "I owe you one."

Her beam threatened to engulf her little face. She chirruped, content, snuggling his front. As Jack helped her back into the folds of his hoodie, it suddenly became clear what he wanted to do.

"C'mon," he said. "I want to show you my favorite place."

In a short breath of cold wind Jack was hovering outside his favorite window. His features softened as he gazed upon the sleeping boy within. _Jamie,_ he thought. He looked so peaceful. The hard, familiar ache lodged in his throat. After centuries of being ignored, passed over, unseen, it still surprised him how much it hurt. Instead of lessening, the pain seemed to grow over the years, gnawing at him, never leaving him alone. Coupled with his soul-grinding frustration, sometimes Jack thought it would overwhelm him. It had, once. Bunnymund thought the Blizzard of '68 had been one big elaborate prank. Jack would've been mortified if the giant Easter kangaroo ever found out how unspeakable desolation drove him to cover the Northern Hemisphere in a whipping, roaring whiteout. Maybe he was torturing himself by visiting Jamie. He shook off the pathetic feeling he was pressing his nose to a candy-shop display window. Even if the boy was oblivious of his presence, some part of Jack hoped it wouldn't always be so. Perhaps it was hope which kept bringing him back.

"I want him to be the first one to see me," Jack said, softly, unmistakable longing in his voice. He gave a sheepish little laugh. "Not that I'm picky, or anything. Any kid would do, it's just . . . him. I'd prefer him. Crazy, huh?"

He glanced at the fairy perched on his shoulder. She shrugged, watching him with her big eyes, her open expression seeming to invite all of his secrets to light. She was so easy to talk to; maybe it was because he'd never had someone listen to him so intently. It was a foreign sensation, a little disconcerting at times, but Jack was learning to enjoy it. Before hanging with the Big Four he'd never had someone to hold a conversation with; the closest he came was when he pleaded with the Moon. Baby Tooth reminded him of the Sandman. A sudden pang shot through Jack. He missed the rotund, wild haired Guardian, missed his antics, missed his jolly grin. After Sandy's death, he'd been desolate. North's words had removed the worse of the bite, but Jack still sometimes thought the mute dream-caster's death was partly his fault. He'd been the one to coax Sandy to fly after the Nightmares, after all. _Pitch is the one who killed him, remember?_ the still, small voice in his head said. _Shot him in the back. Yet you're hanging around the guy. Hell're you doing, Jack?_

Jack groaned out loud. Everything was dancing on its head. "I don't know."

Baby Tooth shifted closer, her tiny hand pressing his cheek. The winter spirit floated upward until he stood atop the slanted roof, the shingles gritty on his naked soles. The whole neighborhood was awash with blue moonlight. He rounded on the Moon. It had a strange, heavy quality to it tonight, as if it were seconds from falling off its hinge and crashing to earth. The familiar angry hopelessness twisted Jack's bowels. He clenched his teeth, torn between swearing and pleading.

"I don't know anything!" he said, looking up at the silent Guardian. "It's been three hundred years; the least you could do is show me a sign, a, a _word_. You talk to the others—hell, even Pitch, and Pitch hates you! Just tell me. Tell me what I'm doing wrong. Just, anything. Please."

Jack strained for the answer he'd been awaiting for three centuries, knuckles white around his staff. He made a sharp sound of disgust as the pregnant seconds plinked by without interruption. Why was he disappointed? At this point, the Man in the Moon's muteness wasn't a surprise. But it was a little like Jamie, wasn't it? Hope kept bringing him back to the boy; maybe the same force kept him crawling back to the Moon.

"I'm with Pitch now, didn't you hear?" Jack said, goading, desperate for a reaction. "Bet you didn't expect that."

There was no answer, but for a split second, he thought he could sense a flicker of sorrow. It was gone before it could fully register, leaving only a dull, twisting ache behind his ribs, and Jack dismissed it for his imagination. Hanging around Jamie always made him see things that weren't there. Once, he'd been so heartbreakingly sure the kid saw him. It happened the past summer, when not a cloud dotted the flame blue sky. A _They're Out There!_ book had been cradled under the boy's arm. Jack stepped into his path, not really thinking. The boy stopped walking, his eyes lighting up with recognition. Jack froze. He was about to laugh, hand halfway raised for a wave, when someone phased through him on a bike. Jamie's head turned to greet his friend, and Jack knew then the kid never saw him and even though Jack knew no one could hear him, he held back the scream of frustration for the sake of his own sanity.

The winter spirit didn't like thinking about that moment, but a part of him could never forget that glorious instant where he thought, _He sees me_.

The familiar misery pressed down on his ribs. He looked at Tooth's little fairy and said, "Let's get out of here."

But before he left Jack made sure to steal a little blanket for her. It was nothing special, but it would keep her warm as he traveled the cold places of the world. It was a poor reward for her wanting to stay with him, but it was the least he could do. Maybe she, too, was running away from ghosts. He left Jamie's house in a blast of icy air, so focused on leaving the object of his longing he didn't see the boy shiver.

 

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Jack was flying, drifting over the clouds like a leaf on a breeze, letting the wind take him away. Leaving the town was probably a good idea. Already the winter spirit could feel himself relaxing into the currents. There was so much disappointment he could take, and being this high up without anyone to ignore him soothed his hurts. _Maybe I should leave for a bit,_ he thought. _Take a break._ After raising his hopes with the Guardians, he needed to forget about the mortal world. He held his arms out, winglike, and soared higher, the moonlight highlighting the clouds blue. He let himself laugh, embracing the release from responsibility. He felt Baby Tooth shift in her blanket, perhaps her blood stirring too from the wildness of it. Too much unhappiness had passed. What did it matter? It wasn't like Jack was a Guardian; he hadn't really been one of them. Pitch's words _When did you all get so chummy?_ drawled in his ear.

It was sunrise by the time Jack landed in Russia's boreal forest. The tops of the trees were tinged a golden yellow, the sky above koi fish pink. His feet hardly made a whisper on the hard, frosted ground. The Siberian wilderness seemed to greet him like an old friend, the crisp autumn air as sharp and clean as a blade, the tangy scent of pine resin thick on the breeze. It was the largest undisturbed forest in the world; the towering conifers stood like sentries at a watch, solemn, guarding their secrets with an iron silence. They stood as if they'd seen the world at its conception, ancient beyond belief, their boughs sagging under the weight of their own existence. Jack drew comfort in the harsh surroundings. It was easier to pretend his exile wasn't real if there was no one around. He had discovered the boreal wood about a century into his isolation, and always returned whenever he felt overwhelmed. During the winter months the forests became an inhospitable desert of trees, the ecosystem too barren and harsh to support much life. In many ways it suited Jack. He was part of it, after all. He was the sudden hush snow created when it covered everything in a muffling blanket. He was the sudden crack of ice, the stillness in the waterfall. He was death, too, the slow freezing of blood and flesh when exposed to the cold for too long. He was Jack Frost, spirit of winter, and sometimes it eased his desolation to know this. It was the one thing he was sure of himself, and he was loath to forget.

Jack twirled his staff. He helped Baby Tooth onto his shoulder, keenly aware his touch inflicted cold. The little fairy peered around, chirping and clacking her beak. She clutched the blanket closer around her tiny body. She seemed subdued, but not as she'd been in Antarctica, or at the sea cliffs. Maybe she sensed Jack's kinship with this vast winter heartland. Once again Jack found comfort in her company. Her presence seemed to shoulder some of the weight of his loneliness, and though she was a constant reminder of what he'd lost, she was also a token of what he had gained.

Days bled into each other. The full moon became a thin smile. Temperatures dropped. He didn't know how long he and Baby Tooth stayed there amongst the trees, the only creatures for miles and miles. Occasionally a titmouse would skitter by or a fox slunk into its den, but little else broke their solitude. Jack meandered through the trees, lost in thought, content to forget everything that had happened. Baby Tooth never complained. She seemed content to stick by his side, and, despite the sharp autumn chill in the air, would sometimes venture through the frostbitten grasses, her little blanket trailing after her like a queen's shawl. When the first snows fell, her tiny footprints dotted the ground like teardrops. She even took to throwing snowballs. Jack soon grew so accustomed to her presence the mere thought of her absence twisted his stomach. She truly was his last friend. It still hurt to think of the Guardians and their disappointment, but time was dulling its sharp bite. Eventually he knew it'd be nothing more than a bitter memory, another reminder of his failures, a taste of what life could've been.

Jack became so complacent in the boreal wilderness he almost didn't recognize the change in the wind. It was late afternoon, the long shadows eating the ground, the sky above taking on the deep bluish-green hue of the oncoming autumn sunset. The winter spirit tensed like a stag scenting fire. It was hard not to react when Pitch materialized out of the woodwork, a wraith for all the sound he made, feet not breaking through the crust of snow. Jack had almost forgotten how sleek he appeared. Pitch seemed a part of the landscape, the harsh environment fitting him with a dangerous aesthetic. He was apathetic as he surveyed his surroundings, mouth thin with displeasure, barely glancing around. Then his head turned. The cold metal in the shadow's eyes seemed to shift as they landed on Jack. The Boogeyman stopped several feet away, taller than Jack remembered.

"You certainly can make it difficult to find you." Thought his tone was mild, the winter spirit thought he tasted an undercurrent of steel. "I was surprised when you never returned. Something the matter?"

"No," Jack said, shrugging. "I guess I just wanted to be—"

"Alone?" Pitch's expression hardened. "You've been alone for three hundred years, Jack. Is that what you want?"

It was Jack's turn to tense. "You know what I want."

"That's right. I do know what you want. I can give you these things." Pitch moved closer, dark and ethereal, circling next to him. "If you'd let me."

At the last word Pitch placed a hand on Jack's shoulder. The touch was light, weightless as a shadow, but to the winter spirit it was like concrete. He was instantly aware of how the long, gray fingers curled around his deltoid, of the heat radiating from the palm, of how close the Boogeyman stood next to him. Jack forced himself still. Centuries without contact had bred in him a wild animal's caution, but the conflicting emotions confused him. He still wasn't sure how he felt about Pitch, and the touch only obscured the once-clear view he had of the Boogeyman. He tolerated the contact with honest but ill ease, both fascinated and repulsed, both leaning into it and pulling away. It'd been the same when Tooth examined his mouth or when North engulfed him in one of his enthusiastic bear hugs. Only, with them, he knew they wouldn't hurt him. This was Pitch.

Jack was simultaneously relieved and disappointed when Pitch suddenly tore his hand away. The Boogeyman leapt back with an undignified _Oh!_ as Baby Tooth jabbed her beak hard into his flesh. She squeaked after him, high and shrill, almost falling off Jack's shoulder in her zeal.

Pitch retreated several steps, scowling, still shaking his hand. He aimed a jagged smile at the little fairy, dripping with all the friendliness of a poisonous viper. "Still haven't shaken off your parasite, I see," he said.

Jack placed a protective hand over the little fairy, shielding her from the disturbing smile. "Leave Baby Tooth alone. She stays with me."

Pitch snorted, but said nothing else on the matter. His gaze flicked away, as if dismissing her entire existence. Jack felt oddly bereft when the Boogeyman didn't attempt to put a hand on his shoulder again. It was strange and slightly alluring to be in the interest of such a dangerous creature. It was like befriending a lion; he never knew when the fangs would bite. His eyes followed Pitch's movements. There was always something graceful in the way the Nightmare King seemed to drift over the ground, insubstantial as black silk, as if he wasn't quite a part of the world. When he stood in the shadow of a conifer, he seemed to fade away. His eyes glinted like coins, the only solid thing about him.

"Perhaps you're approaching your powers the wrong way," Pitch suddenly said.

Jack moved closer, staff resting on a shoulder. "What do you mean?"

"You are winter, Jack. You bring the cold wherever you go. Instead of wasting your talents on snow days and moping around the taiga zone, why not show the world what you can do? Why not conjure a blizzard, for example."

Jack rubbed his forehead, squinting. He'd created blizzards before. It never changed anything. "And how, exactly, will a blizzard help?"

"Because it will remind children of the truth about the world. Children are idealistic. They think if they dream hard enough, wish long enough, the world will fold in on itself to help them get what they want. They're wrong." Pitch's voice was iron. "There is no wonder or happiness or happy dreams coming true; there is only the harshness of existence. War. Sickness. Murder. Death. It's cold and dark out there, and without my fear, and your winter, they wouldn't learn. We're helpingthem."

"Helping them," Jack repeated, deadpan.

"We'll be removing the lies from their eyes!" Pitch said, hunching his shoulders as he'd done in Antarctica, hands outstretched in his fervor. "We'll be showing them the truth."

"More like shoving their faces in it," Jack said, grimacing. "Have you even been around children?"

"Children," Pitch said, straightening. An eerie smile stretched across his face. In the weird half-shadow, half-light of the sunset, he appeared to be just eyes and teeth. "Oh, I know children, more than you'd think. Why do you think they can see spirits, Jack?"

Jack frowned. "Because they believe."

Pitch stalked closer. His crest of hair caught the day's last golden dregs, and for an absurd moment the Nightmare King was crowned in flame. "And why do you think that is? Why do they believe with all of their little hearts in the Easter Bunny, or Santa Claus, or the Boogeyman, when all other evidence suggests otherwise? Little fairies coming in the night? Ridiculous. A man made of sand? Preposterous. A monster under the bed? Don't be silly. Adult human science and logic disproves creatures like you and me. Yet children maintain their faith. Why?" Without waiting for Jack to answer, he said,

"I'll tell you why. It's because they believe in magic. They believe stepping on cracks will break their mothers' backs and blowing candles at birthdays will make wishes come true and there's such things as jinxes and imaginary friends. Don't you see? That's why children believe in us. But that's also why they believe every friendly human offering them candy is good, that death would never come to them. That's why they must learn fear. Fear is healthy. It keeps them safe and contained. Come on, Jack. Don't you want to help them?"

"Well, yeah," Jack said, unable to shake the sensation of being feeling cornered. His hackles rose.

"Good! Then I see no problem."

"Wait, Pitch, hold on," Jack said, lifting a hand. "You need to give me time to think. It's a big deal to cause a snowstorm."

A corner of the shadow's mouth twitched. "I don't recall that ever being a deterrent before. That was quite a show in '68."

Jack pretended he didn't hear the other's comment. "Honestly, I had no idea you put so much thought into this. I thought you were all spooks and frights. Even the Guardians forgot what to do when a kid . . ." Jack hesitated. He didn't like thinking about Bunnymund's warren and how Tooth thought showing a little girl bloody teeth was a good idea. It had too many memories attached. He hurried to finish, albeit lamely, "Well, I was surprised."

Pitch shrugged, casual. If he picked up on Jack's change in subject, he made no mention of it. "Children are simple. They never change. I've been around them since they were little more than mindless animals, grubbing about in the mud and filth right alongside their parents."

Jack leaned on his staff. "That long, eh? You look good for your age. What cream do you use?"

Pitch's mouth thinned. "Your flippancy is unbecoming."

"Look. You're missing the point. If you force this 'truth' down kids' throats, they won't want to listen. Kids almost need to be tricked into learning. You have to make it . . . fun."

The Boogeyman shot him a flat, unamused look. "Fun," he said. He sighed hard through his nose. "Clearly, spending time with the Guardians has addled that brain of yours. Come back with me. It'll do you good to return to the civilized world than stay amongst all these . . . trees."

"Civilized world." Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. "Pitch, you do realize you live in an underground hole, right?"

Pitch smiled, teeth sharp. "The least you can do is provide me the opportunity to play a proper host, rather than barging in and dashing off like a rapscallion."

"How about I think about it," Jack said.

"Oh, but I do _insist_."

Pitch was suddenly there, so deep in Jack's comfort zone the winter spirit froze, brain clogging as his nose was almost pressed into the Boogeyman's chest. They were close enough to hug. Before he or Baby Tooth could react, a glittering cloud of corrupted dreamsand enwrapped them. Light and sound disappeared in a single vortex of swirling motion, and Jack felt as if he were hurtling through vacuum's tube, the suction tearing at his seams. Then the whirlwind stopped. His head didn't. Jack stumbled and landed hard on a knee, teeth almost clipping the tip of his tongue off. It took several more moments before he could right himself, eyes still squinting from the tumultuous journey. He reached a hand into his hoodie. Baby Tooth was still there, swooning. She squeaked her objections, but Jack shushed at her under his breath. He looked around. The Siberian forest was gone. In its place stood the dank and dead-lit cavernous expanse of Pitch's lair. It was exactly how Jack had left it all those months ago, when he'd followed the memory-case's call: the eerie, iron-wrought cages hanging on motionless chains, the random Escher-esque architecture, and twisting stone staircases. Jack had no idea where all the light came from. It was neither sunlight nor moonlight, but a pale and washed out sort, as if caught in antique film. Tiny motes of dust swirled in the beams of dead light, as tiny as firefly flashes. Jack's naked soles slapped against cold flagstones as he moved deeper into the heart of Pitch's lair, feeling for all the world he was entering the maw of the beast.

Jack found the Boogeyman standing before a twisted bronze globe shaved down to nothing but continents and negative space. It suited Pitch. Everything about the dark place did. The Nightmare King exuded a confidence not apparent outside his lair: here, he was Lord of Shadows. Jack had seen it before with the other Guardians; Bunnymund seemed to brighten ten degrees when he entered his warren, every shade of green reflected in his eyes. Or North, with his wondrous workshop. A pang shot through Jack as he spied the mountains of memory-cases. The thought of Tooth twisted his insides. He looked away. Walking closer to the Boogeyman, his previous irritation at being _shoved in a sack and tossed through a magic portal_ manhandled faded as he realized the globe was dark.

"The lights," Jack said without thinking. "They're all gone."

Pitch quarter turned. "Yes." There was unmistakable glee in his voice. He was nearly purring. He lifted a hand and gently brushed the tip of Brazil with a long, elegant finger. "Beautiful, isn't it? All that darkness."

Jack moved closer until he was abreast with the Boogeyman. He could feel Baby Tooth quaking next to his neck. He wished he could offer her words of comfort, but they would've sounded hollow. There was only unease in him as he stared at the lack of molten suns, a terrible sense of _what have I done_ dripping down his spine.

"If all the lights are out, doesn't that mean they won't believe in us either?" he asked.

"The Guardians have ruled their last. The slate is fresh. Now, the children of the world will shine for us, and us alone." Pitch glanced down his nose at Jack. There was something different about his eyes; the metal in them seemed warmer, as if left over a candle. It was an expression Jack had never seen before. "You're free to come and go as you please. My lair is yours."

"Uh, thanks," Jack said, scratching the back of his neck. "I think. It's just, you're going to need to work on your interior decorating. I mean, what's with all the cages? You have a fetish or something?"

It was odd to watch Pitch withdrew, going utterly impassive, the animated features smoothing into a blank mask.

"Think nothing of them," the Boogeyman said, softly, as if in afterthought.

Despite the mildness of the tone, Jack could hear the clear note of finality. The winter spirit gave the shadow one last lingering look before moving on, staff propped on one shoulder. It was te same as when he'd asked about Pitch's memories on the cliff. It had struck him as odd, then. He knew all of the other Guardians retained their memories of their past life; maybe Pitch liked to keep his secrets close. But as Jack walked over a bridge, footsteps slapping the emptiness, a second idea slithered into his mind. _What if Pitch doesn't remember? What if he's like me?_ The concept relaxed him. _Maybe we're not so different after all._ Suddenly the dark corridors didn't seem quite so threatening, the shadows not quite so bottomless. Even the dead light didn't seem so ominous, offering a muted aesthetic to the cavernous realm he hadn't noticed before. _My lair is yours._ Home. Pitch was offering him a home. Jack never had a true place to call his own, other than the pond he'd emerged from was long gone. The people he remotely grew to recognize over the centuries were dead. He was immortal. He had but to blink and he was staring at new faces, the old ones already fading from memory. Though he didn't like thinking about it, he knew Jamie would eventually die. Maybe that's why the Guardians didn't make friends with kids. Maybe watching a friend grow old and wither became too painful. But now Pitch was offering something stable. Something concrete.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

The winter spirit looked up to find Pitch walking abreast with him, hands clasped behind his back.

"Thinking about ponds," Jack said. To his surprise the Boogeyman chuckled. It was a dark sound, the colour of his robes, but sonorous, rich and refined. Jack didn't know how to feel about it. Something about Pitch had changed since the boreal forest, and it left the winter spirit's hackles on edge. In all of his limited experience with the Boogeyman, Jack had never known him to be so inviting. To the Guardians he'd been a surgical blade, every action aimed to hurt, every word gloating and malicious. He'd even killed Sandy in cold blood. _Think about something else,_ Jack thought.

"And about centres," he added, a little too quickly. When Pitch said nothing, he continued, "North said that's the key to finding out why I was chosen. Why the Moon made me like this. If—if I can just find a way to figure it out, maybe kids'll start believing in me."

 _Who are you, Jack Frost?_ North had said, so serious, so solemn, peering at Jack as if searching for a seam to crack him open. _What is your centre? If Man in Moon chose you to be Guardian, you must have something very special inside._ Of course, that was before the botched Easter debacle. Did the Guardian of Wonder still have the same faith in him now? What would North say if he knew Jack was with Pitch? If any of them did?

"How's this for centre?" Pitch said, and without a single twitch of warning, he leaned down and captured Jack's lips with his own. Jack's eyes flew wide. He was too shocked to shove Pitch away, even when teeth broke through flesh. A startled _mmm!_ jerked from his throat as the coppery tang flooded his tongue. Pitch sucked on the blood apologetically, but he seemed to relish the flavor. Then he was backing off, barely leaving time for Jack to breathe. The winter spirit stumbled until the back of his thighs hit the bridge's wall. A hand flew to his mouth. When he pulled the fingers away they were smeared with blood. His head shot up.

"What—what was that for?"

Pitch shrugged, gaze never leaving his, the once cold metal of his eyes now smoldering. "You decide."

And like that, Pitch turned on his heel and continued on his placid way as if nothing ever happened. Jack stared after the Boogeyman as if he'd grown three heads, brain still struggling to function. Even Baby Tooth could do little more than weakly squeak, her eyes wet and round. When Jack thought he could move, his first step was as weak as warm rubber. It took several more tries to walk in a straight line. He touched his lips again. They were sore and tender, still throbbing from Pitch's intensity. The kiss had been little more than an assault, with all the finesse of a shark's embrace. He walked off the bridge, unsettled and jumping at shadows, unsure at the strange hurt-good feeling roiling in his stomach. There was something in his stomach, it seemed, burning and tremulous, that shook everything loose from his core. It felt like pain but inexplicably different. He had no name for the feeling. What if the Boogeyman tried that stunt again? Dread cramped his guts. Jack vowed to punch him straight in the nose if he did. He found Pitch standing by the mounds of memory-cases. In their golden, reflective light the Nightmare King appeared like a fox fat on hens, a satisfied gleam in his eye. Before Jack could fume and march up to him, ready to demand an explanation, the sound of a thousand upended rain sticks made him pause. He looked up. Baby Tooth stirred next to him. Her excited squeaks almost blew off Jack's ear when she recognized her kidnapped companions.

"The fairies!" Jack said, retribution forgotten. With a single bound he was hanging off one of the cages, fingers laced through the bars. The cacophony was deafening. He had to shout to be heard over the racket. "Hey girls, hey, it's okay, I'm here, I'm here. I'll get you out this time, I promise."

There had to be hundreds of fairies. Each cage was chock full of them, their dull green feathers flashing whenever they caught a lucky turn of light. Jack pulled himself up. When he noticed feathers covered the bottom of the cage, he realized some of them had sickly bald spots. _I should've saved you guys sooner,_ he thought, stricken. How selfish he'd been before, how so utterly self-absorbed. _All I could think about was getting those stupid memories._ No wonder why the Guardians kicked him out: all he cared about was himself.

The crescendo was becoming ear-splitting as each tried to outdo the other in their excitement. Some were actually clapping. Baby Tooth wasn't helping with her squeaking right by his ear.

"Girls, girls! Please! Quiet down! I need to hear myself think."

One by one Tooth's little fairies quieted, until at last Jack found himself the focus of hundreds of pairs of eyes. The intense silence was deafening. _Oh boy,_ he thought. Now what? None of them could fly. How was he supposed to free each and every one of them? The winter spirit looked over his shoulder. Pitch was lounging on a chair made of what appeared to be glittering soot, sitting with all the indolence of a cat full on cream. He was regarding Jack through slitted eyes, not aiding, but not stopping him, either, seemingly quite content to watch the winter spirit make a fool of himself. When he noticed Jack glaring at him, he offered a cheeky little wave.

"Good luck!" he called, chortling. "I'm sure saving them will take you no time at all."

Jack gritted his teeth. His lips ached from the phantom kiss.

Pitch's mocking laughter swelled. "Something the matter, Jack? Not enough room in your shirt? Oh! Oh! Want to return the teeth as well? I'm sure in a hundred years you'll complete that little chore."

Jack had enough. He whirled his head around and said, "Very funny, ha ha. Can't you at least lend a hand? What about giving up one of your Nightmares?"

Pitch mock-wiped a tear from his eye, shoulders still quaking from the aftershocks of mirth. "Oh? You mean them?"

The Boogeyman spread his hands. From every corner of darkness poured shimmering bodies. They rose like a dark tide, thousands of baleful orange eyes gleaming from their depths. They were without number, without count, and as Jack stared into their legion, he realized he was looking at despair incarnate. The fathomless depths of it took his breath away. _He's grown powerful,_ he thought. Even back when he fought alongside the Guardians to save Sandy he'd never seen such a gathered force. The mass moved like a live thing, constantly shifting like the waves of an ocean, Nightmares merging and cresting like breakers. He could hear their violin squeals and whinnies, the haunted cries echoing throughout the yawning caverns. It was madness to gaze at it too long. Jack tore his eyes away.

"I'm sure if you ask them nicely they wouldn't mind helping out a friend," Pitch called out. "Go on, Jack. What's the magic word?"

"Abracadabra."

The legion seemed to move closer of its own accord. The fairies rattled their cages, shrilling in distress. Pitch's smile was merciless. Baby Tooth was tugging on his earlobe with hard, quick jerks. He shooed her off and forced himself to look down at the smug Boogeyman.

" _Fine._ Please."

"See? Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Pitch clapped his hands together and tilted his head to address his horde of fearlings. "Well? You heard him. Get moving."

All of the cage doors swung open at once. The fairies squeaked and held onto each other as the dark tide rose to swallow them up, individual Nightmares broke off and galloped straight for them. As they passed through the bars the fairies remained in the fearlings' ribcages, just as they had been when first caught all those months ago. Jack watched as the glittering river of corrupted dreamsand flooded past. He looked inside the cage. Twenty identical pairs of eyes looked up at him, each confused and hopeful, peering up at their savior. _They think I'm still with the Guardians,_ Jack thought. He suddenly felt weary beyond his years.

"C'mon," he said, reaching a hand into the cage, "let's get you all back to Tooth."

 

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Pitch was in a high, fine mood. He hid himself amongst the Nightmares, disguised as an innocuous cloud of soot as he followed the herd to the Tooth Palace. Frost was none the wiser. He thought he was returning the fairies alone like a good little spirit. Pitch wasn't doing this for Frost's benefit. Despite himself, he was curious to see the state of the feathered tart's Palace for himself. By now, he imagined, it must be little more than a shattered ruin. How would the child react? Pitch was curious to see what Frost would do. A secondary, grimmer reason was to keep a closer eye on the winter spirit. The Boogeyman had been lulled into a false sense of security when Frost sought him out on the sea cliffs. He had thought the child well-heeled. What a fool he was. After waiting for over a month, he caved in and deigned to search for the boy himself. He eventually found him in the heart of the winter lands, lounging deep in the Siberian forests. Pitch had been both disappointed and irritated. They had a world to construct, yet there Frost was, wallowing in solitude as if he were _enjoying_ it. Pitch knew why. It was that damn fairy. If Frost had her, then he wasn't truly alone. Pitch was supposed to be the one to replace all his emotional attachments, not her. She was a wildcard in his schemes, a presence he wouldn't tolerate.

She would have to go.

Pitch could wait. Maybe Frost would return her to the Tooth Fairy of his own accord. And not everything was ruined. Despite the little parasite's best efforts to balk his advances, the kiss had been perfect. What better way to bring the child to heel than seducing him through the flesh? Pitch was no fool. Centuries without physical contact would've left the boy starved for touch. The kiss was only the beginning; it'd be only a matter a time before Frost craved for more. Pitch told himself the kiss had merely been a means to an end, but he knew he was deluding himself. Ever since Frost walked towards him by the sea cliffs, every movement a cautious wild thing's, the Nightmare King hungered for more. When their lips were together he had yearned to explore every inch of the winter spirit's mouth, and it had taken every second of his millennia perfecting the patient arts of manipulation to pull him away. Move too fast and he risked spooking the errant creature. He couldn't afford any mistakes.

Pitch sped up until he was nearly alongside the winter spirit, still disguised as a wisp of smoke. Frost was cradling his precious cargo close to his chest, the little fairies peering out from the crook of his elbow. His face was tight, jaw clenched, staring straight for the Palace. It occurred to Pitch then how genuinely _good_ Frost was. He sincerely wanted to help his little Guardian friends, despite their utter rejection. Of course, Pitch had orchestrated it all. From stealing the fairies, to removing Sandy, to the Easter debacle, he knew the demoralized Guardians would cast blame on their most wayward member, _especially_ if he were caught with the memory-case. Sure enough, the remaining Guardians hadn't failed to deliver. Pitch found Frost in Antarctica emotionally vulnerable, lost, angry enough to lash out. Ripe for the picking. If Frost ever figured it out . . . _He won't,_ Pitch thought. That was the downfall of all inherently good creatures: they suffered guilt, and Frost's guilt was more delicious than most. It would keep him blind. Plus, it made him easy to torment. Watching Frost trying to save all those fairies by himself was hilarious. The Boogeyman hadn't been this entertained since the Spanish Inquisition.

The jagged peaks of the Tooth Palace rose up, tawny rose in the morning light. It always seemed morning here, marking the time children woke up and discovered their teeth had been exchanged for trinkets. The Palace greeted the travelers with all the hospitality a desolate mountain could, swallowing the Nightmare herd without a sound. Pitch hung back as Frost swooped down through the tunnels. He took his time entering the Palace's main plaza, eager to draw out the anticipation. He wasn't disappointed.

The destruction was glorious.

Pitch's malicious smile threatened to split his face. It was better than he ever could've hoped. The once golden spires that had hung from the ceiling were obliterated, reduced to corroded skeletons, twisting in the slight breeze. The exquisite purple and pink metal latticework had crumbled away and now rested on the bottom of the cavern as giant heaps of shimmering dust. The once-crystal pools were brown and choked, the trees that lined their banks buried under the glittering ruins of Tooth's Palace. As Pitch landed amongst his Nightmares, he craned his neck up. It was as if the Palace had never existed. Except for the meager remains of the spires, everything else—the murals, the terraces, the towers, the delicate walkways—were all powder beneath his feet. Victory had never smelled fresher. He pulled in a deep breath, relishing the sickly sweet odor of despair. It was the perfume of triumph, and as he inhaled it, he soon found himself intoxicated. He stretched his arms out and spun in slow circles, closing his eyes, letting the power sluice over him like a dark ocean's waves.

Having drunk his fill, he opened his eyes and spun to a halt. He looked about, stilling when he spied the frosted blue hoodie. The child seemed struck dumb, a most undignified expression of horrified sorrow painting his features. The fairies in his arms were subdued, hardly uttering a peep amongst them. Pitch trailed behind unnoticed, keeping to the shadows. His Nightmares deposited their burdens and vanished into the cracks of the mountain, lying in wait until summoned. Soon a field of silent green fairies surrounded Frost, their grief palpable in the air. Pitch would've preferred a touch of fear. _What will you do now?_ He thought. _Your kingdom is destroyed. Your queen is overthrown. Your reason for existence is at an end._ His eyes cut to Frost. The child's solemnity fit his features like a well-loved sweater. Pitch surmised it was an accustomed emotion. Beneath that boyish, flippant exterior, Pitch knew lurked a creature of unspeakable sadness, aching for comfort and lonely beyond comprehension. Pitch admired it for a time, taking in the downward cast of the eye, the tightness around the brows. His gaze rested on the soft line of the lips, the familiar hunger stirring within him. Silence permeated the scene. That was, until the Tooth Fairy popped her feathered head from behind a mound. As one the fairies began their cacophonous din of chirps and squeaks, rushing over the mountains of glittering dust to reach her. Frost's head snapped up, eyes widening.

"Tooth!"

"Jack!" She stumbled on feet not used to walking. "You came back!"

A tiny landslide cascaded around her as she struggled to reach him. She appeared even worse than before; she had lost the golden plume at her brow and several more down her front. Her wings were crumpled and drooping. Her once regal iridescent train was ratty and gray. She hardly touched level ground before the fairies swarmed around her, trilling their happiness. Pitch's mouth twitched as he gazed upon the scene. Some part of him now regretted letting Frost give the parasites back. If he had his way, the feathered queen would understand the pain of loneliness for much longer. His eyes narrowed as she lifted several fairies to her cheek for an affectionate nuzzle. They were nearly burying her in their embrace. The reunion was sickening. Frost dared not move throughout it all, as if afraid to step on a single wayward fairy. Pitch could see the taut way he was holding himself, the shoulders stiff and awkward, as if he was considering leaving before she could talk to him. The flash of the white throat every time he swallowed was exquisite.

"Ladies, ladies, don't disgrace yourselves," Tooth said after a time. She looked like she was kneeling in a sea of green. One by one the fairies settled, the pandemonium dying down. When the worst was over, Tooth lifted her head. Despite her decayed feathers and flightless wings, her eyes were still crystal-cut jewels. They shone with relief and gratitude, but Pitch could always read the darker side of emotions. Beneath the happiness was confusion, and beneath that, a horrible, sinking suspicion. _Your fear has come true, you poor thing,_ Pitch thought with glee. _He has a new friend now._

"Oh, thank you, Jack, thank you. I was so worried about them, so worried for you . . . we all thought you were gone. After you left, I . . . how—how did you bring back all my fairies?"

"It doesn't matter now," Frost said with a little shake of his head, as if dismissing the question and all of the attached implications. "All that matters is they're here with you."

Pitch chose that moment to make his entrance. He detached himself from the shadows, morphing into his full dimensional figure.

"What he means to say," he said, stepping into view, basking in their surprise, "is he had help."

Tooth gasped. She sprang to her feet. "You!"

Pitch inclined his head in a mock-bow. "Me."

The Guardian whipped into action. "Get behind," she said, pulling at Frost's sleeve, as if to protect him. Frost shot Pitch a hard look. The Boogeyman ignored it. He was having too much fun. He gave a little shrug, as if to say, _Oops._ Frost gritted his teeth and tried to catch the fairy queen's attention.

"Wait, Tooth. There's something I have to tell you."

"Believe me, my dear," Pitch said, enjoying the way Tooth was trying to get in front of Frost, "that won't be necessary."

Tooth's feathers bristled like hedgehog spikes. The venom in her eyes could've killed a lesser immortal. She didn't look away from Pitch when she said, "Jack? What's he talking about? Why is he saying these things?"

Frost squirmed, unable to look in her direction. He threw a beseeching, furious glower the Boogeyman's way. Pitch rescued him, drawling, "Haven't you heard, you silly fairy? Your boy Jack's with me."

"What?" Tooth rose from her fighter's crouch. She turned to stare hard at Frost. "Jack, is this true?"

Frost winced. "I—please, Tooth. You have your fairies."

Perhaps it was the look he gave her, or the look he didn't, but the next instant Tooth was taking a step back, hand covering her mouth. Pitch noticed the way Jack seemed to harden like water freezing over, going almost imperceptibly still until he was nothing but a frozen sculpture. _This has happened before,_ Pitch realized. Maybe when the Guardians abandoned him? His pupils shrunk as he secreted the tidbit of information away.

"No," Tooth was saying, horrified. She kept shaking her head, as if she could wake up from the nightmare. "This isn't the way. You can't—"

"Can't?" Frost smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it, tight and thin. "You kinda made it clear you guys didn't want me around."

"Wh-what? No, Jack, we didn't—we didn't mean this! How? How could you? This is Pitch!"

Frost shrugged, cold and hard and stiff. "He made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

Tooth ran a frazzled hand through her feathers. Several fell to the floor like withered leaves in a winter chill. Only Pitch noticed how the fairies gathered around them, stroking them as if they were the most precious artifacts in the world.

"Jack, listen to reason. He's brainwashing you! Don't you see?"

Frost said nothing, sullen. Tooth stomped a foot on the ground, almost foaming with frustration. "He's using you to keep kids from believing. He's a monster! Don't you remember? _He killed Sandy!_ "

Frost's face spasmed as if struck. He turned his shoulder to her, as if instinctively trying to skirt the blow. The Tooth Fairy searched his face. When Jack refused to meet her gaze, she rounded on Pitch with all the fury of an overthrown queen. She was shaking with rage. "What have you done to him?"

Pitch flicked nonexistent dust from his arms. He gazed down the length of his nose at her. "Me? Nothing at all. You Guardians have yourselves to thank."

The last tether holding the Tooth Fairy back snapped. She lunged at him, roaring. It was almost pathetically easy to sidestep her pitiful charge. The fight was over before it began. She was as weak as a day-old chick, and when he blasted her with a facefull of dreamsand, there was no resistance. She slammed into the ground with the force of a battering ram, skidded several times before rolling to a stop. One of her wings was bent at a severe angle. She could hardly sit up. Blood the colour of old wine leaked from the corner of her mouth. Pitch advanced, a dark shimmering sword materializing from his hand. There was a squeaking uproar in the distance, unimportant. He would've liked killing her much later, but he couldn't let such blatant audacity go unpunished. He savored the flash of fear she sent his way, relishing the added power flowing in his veins. Ever since the Man in the Moon chose her to replace his fear, he'd been waiting to do this. _Two down, two to go,_ he thought, raising his sword in an executioner's hold.

Frost stepped in front of him.

In his zeal, Pitch had completely forgotten about the winter spirit. The Boogeyman blinked down at him in surprise, sword still held high.

"You're in the way, Jack."

"No, I'm not." The words were quiet, but steel in them was unmistakable. Frost met his gaze with an unyielding one of his own.

"Move it," Pitch said, irritation mounting. The sword was getting heavy.

"No."

It was as if someone had replaced the child with a solid and immoveable glacier. Not an emotion flitted past as he locked glares with the Boogeyman, jaw tight, eyes chips of flint. Staring at him was like holding a hand in a bucket of freezing water: the longer the Boogeyman stayed, the more uncomfortable he became. A trickle of trepidation dripped down his spine. To his chagrin, he was the first to look away, unable to stand the cold, fathomless regard. He was quick to cover his unease. Eager to make the best out of a bad job, he dissolved the sword with a swirl of his hand and made a show of sighing and rolling his eyes.

"Very well, if you want to save her life so badly."

Pitch retreated a step, telling himself that he wasn't fleeing from this strange new persona. He was the one who inspired fear, not the other way around. The Nightmare King was almost relieved when the ironclad iciness melted from the child's face.

"You okay?" Frost asked, half-turning to the Guardian, his sympathy leaking through the awkward openness of his gaze.

"Yes," Tooth said. "Thank you."

The winter spirit nodded and began to walk away, shoulders stiff, not helping the Tooth Fairy up. She caught Pitch's eye. She smiled up at him. Blood had covered her teeth, staining them red. In a strangely obscene gesture she wiped the trickle from the corner of her mouth and said,

"What's the matter, Pitch? Can't control your minions?" Her eyes narrowed in un-Guardianlike spite. "Seems like the spider's getting tangled in his own web."

Pitch hid his infuriation with a needled, contemptuous smile. "At least he protected you, which is more than can be said for the way you treated him."

Her expression darkened. It soothed some of his humiliation to know he'd struck the fallen Guardian a blow. He spun on a heel and began to glide across the ruins of Tooth's empire, hardly disturbing a single grain of dust. He looked up. Though the feathered tart and the winter spirit couldn't see them, the horde of fearlings was imbedded in the shadows, their orange eyes peering out like infernos. He waved a hand at his legion of Nightmares, signaling they were free to go. They sunk into the mountainside without a sound, disappearing into the murk. Just before Pitch dissolved after them, he said over his shoulder, his words stinging in their callousness,

"I'd take a look at that wing. It looks painful."

Then he was gone, dispersing like a drop of ink in water.

The next instant he was back in his lair. Pitch closed his eyes and breathed in the cold, dry aroma of his dominion. It smelled as if no one had drawn breath in a long time, a thought which helped clear his head and centre himself. He reopened his eyes and allowed them to adjust to the dead light. Pitch prided himself on being a quick study, but he was realizing when it came to the subject of a certain winter spirit, he was making mistakes. The child was unpredictable. He hadn't anticipated Frost to successfully stop him from killing the Guardian. Expected a protest, of course, but actually succeeding? Pitch shuddered when he recalled how dead and cold Frost became. It was like looking into the soul of winter and finding it a colder, more inhospitable void than ever imaginable. A single, dizzying moment in time, it had frightened Pitch. In the same breath, it sharpened his desire. This was the power he craved to harness, this was the reason he was seducing the child. It stroked the Boogeyman's deep animal yearning for the strength and fear he once commanded, and he would have what was rightfully his. But until he learned to control the winter spirit, the child would remain a loose cannon. The Boogeyman was pulled away from his brooding when Frost landed in front of him. The winter spirit rounded on him, cold anger snapping in the air like the scent of an oncoming blizzard. Ice was crackling up his staff.

"What the hell was that back there?" Though he was a full foot shorter than Pitch, Frost's agitation removed the height between them.

"I'm not understanding the problem," Pitch replied, feigning indifference. He eyed the child askew, wary for the same blank iciness from before. Thankfully, Frost seemed too distraught to achieve that frigid stillness. Pitch relaxed. This type of anger was harmless. He ignored the brandishing staff, feeling his confidence returning.

"I wasn't ready to tell her!"

"So, you were willing to lie instead?" Pitch said, peering at the other with a long, low look. He closed the distance with a smooth step forward. "When will you be ready? In a month? A year? A century? You wound me, Jack. And here I thought we had nothing to hide."

At that Frost seemed to stiffen. His eyes tightened and went narrow. "Oh, really? Nothing to hide? Then maybe you'd like to explain yourself."

"Explain what?"

"You know what."

The Boogeyman made a show of examining his fingernails. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be a little more specific, Jack."

Frost pointed the shepherd's hook directly at Pitch's heart, almost snarling when he said, "Don't play stupid. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Pitch looked up from his hand and allowed a slow smile to spread over his face. " _Ohhh_. That. Call it an experiment."

The fight sagged out of Frost. The staff drooped. The child's stance straightened from its aggressive lean and a lost, confused frown twisted his features. "An, an experiment?"

Pitch continued as if he didn't notice. "Yes. I was doing some thinking on your predicament and thought perhaps experiencing another being's touch is just the thing you need to find your centre. Who knows what might happen."

The winter spirit's face crumpled. He began to pace in front of Pitch in short, hard circles, fisting his hair. He reminded the Boogeyman of a caged animal, slowly going mad under its confinement. "I don't—I don't know what to _do_ anymore. I thought joining you would help, but that thing with Tooth . . . I need—I just need to _know_. Why this, why any of this. Can't you see?"

Frost stopped in front of him, breath coming in short, distressed soughs. Pitch took a risk and gently rested a hand on his shoulder. He was chilled to the touch. Pitch could feel the muscles shaking beneath the frosted blue hoodie. _He's so slight,_ he thought for no reason. He manipulated his voice to its softest timbre. "It's alright, _shh_ , you're alright. I promise, you will have your answers, Jack. You just need to trust me."

Pitch almost came undone when Frost looked up at him in exquisite agony. "I just want to understand."

Before the Nightmare King could respond, the winter spirit left in a blast of freezing air, disappearing down one of the passages towards the surface beyond. Pitch stared at the place he'd left for a long time, replaying Frost's last expression over and over in his head, drawing out every delicious detail until he was nearly shuddering with lust. The child had felt so thin underneath his clothes, as if a single breath of wind could blow him away. Pitch was so deep in thought he didn't realize a fearling had detached itself from the main horde and was standing next to him, snorting. Pitch reached out with compulsory fingers and stroked its pleated neck, still too preoccupied to give it much attention.

Though time was immaterial for an immortal, the Boogeyman soon found himself counting the days, just as he'd done the first time Frost left. He knew it was unrealistic to expect such a free-flying creature to constantly remain in his underground domain, and reminded himself to be patient. Since aligning with Frost, he didn't like how the emptiness seemed deeper, more invasive. He told himself it had nothing to do with the kiss. He also told himself the Tooth Fairy had no idea what she was talking about—he, Pitch, fall into his own trap? He was the schemer who brought down the mighty Guardians, who could wrap lies in honesty and make his enemies think a curse a gift. Clearly, he had smashed her head on the ground a little too hard. Eager to think of other things, Pitch occupied himself with controlling the distribution of fear in the world. Without the do-gooders to interfere, he enjoyed a freedom he hadn't experienced since the Dark Ages. His Nightmares spread and multiplied. As the children's fears festered, so grew his power. Eventually the globe began to light up, but unlike the warm, golden lights signaling the Guardians' reign, these lights were sickly white, like roots left to grow without sunlight. They spread across the bronze sheets like a network of capillaries. Pitch observed their growth obsessively, checking it with a gardener's care. He was careful not to spread too much fear. If he made humans miserable enough, they would grasp towards hope and idealistic dreams, two ingredients needed to bring back the Guardians. But as much as the Boogeyman savored his return to power, the feathered tart's words gnawed at him like a rat at a bone.

Something was missing to his victory. An aspect of cold, perhaps.

Ten days passed since the journey to the Tooth Fairy's realm before Pitch felt a draft of cold rushing up his spine, with it the fresh, crisp scent of snow. The Boogeyman disguised the sudden, treacherous bloom of relief with an indifferent glance. He slowly turned around. Frost looked the same as ever, as though nothing had happened, as though the agonizing week of uncertainty had never passed. His hood was up, giving him a secretive, brooding air. As Pitch drank in the wild, furtive aura around the winter spirit, he thought him beautiful, beautiful in the way snow hid its dangers beneath a placid surface, or how a wolf secreted its fangs. The dark spirit's jaw tightened as he spied the little fairy. She was still there, nestled beside Frost's neck. He dismissed her with a twitch of a lip. She was nothing. He waited for the other immortal to say a word, not realizing how much he'd tensed. Pitch instantly rebuked himself. This was only Jack Frost. He had nothing to fear. He forced his muscles to relax, gliding closer to the eternal teenager.

Frost's eyes flicked up, peering from beneath the hood. "What you said before. About . . . about the kiss. The touching. You think it might work?"

Pitch gave a soft smile. "Won't know till we try, now will we?"

Frost approached. He seemed on the verge of bolting, body half-angled for flight, knuckles white. He reeked of spicy nervousness. Pitch wondered if the child was even aware of it. His blood quickened. It was the sea cliffs all over again, except this time inexplicably different. He fought not to let his hunger show. Some of it must've leaked because Frost seemed to tense, every muscle humming with pent-up energy. But he never flew off, never attempted to escape, holding still even when Pitch breached his personal space. The Boogeyman admired his tenacity.

"I suggest leaving your passenger behind," he said, voice the texture of oil as he glanced at the little parasite. She scowled. He graced her with a beatific smile, enjoying the way she seemed to blanch. "We wouldn't want to accidentally crush her."

"Crush . . .?" Frost's eyes widened. "Oh."

Pitch twisted his wrist and a dark cushion materialized out of nowhere. It floated to the ground and rested there. Frost walked to it and knelt down, balancing on the balls of his feet with a dancer's grace. Then, with breathtaking gentleness, he deposited the little fairy onto it. Her squeaks quieted as she sank into its plushy folds. It seemed to engulf her. She stared, mute and miserable.

"I'd leave the staff behind, too."

"Oh. Right."

Frost placed the staff next to the pillow, fingers lingering on the smooth wood with the barest trace of reluctance. Pitch was willing to overlook the hesitation. He forced himself to relax. He had seduced plenty of humans and spirits in his time, but it had been a long while since he bedded a willing participant, especially one he was so fascinated with. He moved slowly, so as not to spook the child. The other was nearly vibrating with nerves, and when Pitch brushed the tense line of his shoulders, he saw how close Frost was to fleeing. _Not without your staff, you won't,_ the Boogeyman thought. He used a long finger to tip Frost's chin up.

"Easy. I'm not going to hurt you. Come on, that's it."

When he had the winter spirit where he wanted, Pitch bent down and pressed Jack's lips to his own. At first the other was rigid. He relaxed by degrees, jaws easing. He smelled of hoarfrost and places were it always snowed, crisp and fresh. His lips had the firmness and give of peaches. Pitch deepened the embrace, taking charge in light of Jack's pitiful lack of experience, tongue slipping past the slack lips and sweeping the roof of his mouth. It was cold, but not unbearably so; it was dipping his tongue into a mountain stream, every exhaled breath tasting of ice. Jack shied his head away, eyes wide. Pitch allowed him, almost grimacing under the strain of self-control, the urge to rip off his clothes and take him right there on the floor almost undoing him. Before he could become disappointed, to his surprise Jack attempted to return the favor. The kiss was clumsy, nothing but a pursed mashing of lips, but it was a start. His eyes were screwed shut. Pitch kissed him again, this time abandoning the mouth to explore the clean line of the jaw, the smoothness of the cheek. His hands rose up to frame Jack's head, burying into the white hair. He could feel the child panting against him, breath cold against his skin.

"Wait . . . Pitch, wait."

The breathless, unhinged quality to Jack's voice stirred Pitch's dark hunger. He pulled away and smiled, soft and terrible. "Yes?"

"I—I'm feeling—this has never—"

Pitch shushed him with a finger on his lips. "Centuries without touch . . . I'm not surprised. Over here. I suggest lying down for the next part."

The only sound Jack could make was a low _oh_ as the sinuous shadow led him to a blanket of glittering soot. It had the texture of outer space, neither soft nor rough. The Boogeyman lowered Jack onto it, mimicking the same care the child showed the little fairy. Pitch had considered taking the winter spirit, but decided against it. Jack had so little control in his life, perhaps a taste of it would further bind him to his purposes.

"Relax. It'll go easier on you if you do," Pitch said in lieu of warning. Then he began to explore the thin body beneath him, kissing the lips, jaw, the slender line of the neck. Jack was wooden at first, not moving an inch as Pitch ghosted his teeth over his clavicle, but when the Boogeyman moved downwards, hands dipping under the sweater and splaying on the ribs and abdomen, he began to shudder and twitch. His squirms increased in frequency and violence when Pitch began to run his nails across the sensitive slope of the hip, puncturing the silence with little indrawn _oh_ s. Pitch pushed the sweater out of the way to lick at the nipples. Jack began to breathe hard. When the gray fingers pinched the sensitive flesh Jack gave a sharp cry. He sunk back down, breathing hard.

Pitch stopped his ministrations and leaned over him, teeth sharp. "I'm still not hearing a 'no'."

The winter spirit seemed incapable of anything but shallow panting, but even if he were to protest, Pitch didn't give him a chance. He was capturing his lips again, bringing his teeth into it this time, nibbling, sucking until they were flushed and swollen. Pitch went on to attend the back of the knees, the thighs, the hip and groin, all the while growing intoxicated on the breathy moans. The sweater came off. Jack had a teenager's body, slender, roped with lean, wiry muscle. His hips were narrow beneath his hands, the bony crests deliciously sensitive. Pitch lapped and nipped the white flesh, his excitement mounting with every quiver. He forgot himself when he gripped at Jack's excitement through his pants, stroking his length.

" _Oh!_ "

Jack nearly sat up, eyes flying side. The pupils were blown with arousal. He looked down where the shadow's hand rested between his legs, a high, thin flush spotting his cheeks.

"Never—I've, I've never—"

"You'll start now."

Gentle but remorseless, Pitch unlaced the buckskin trousers and shimmied them down. Jack didn't fight when the Boogeyman kissed the bare inner thighs, relishing how the chilled skin radiated cold. It cooled his hot brow, but did nothing to temper the molten heat pooling in his groin. He stroked Jack's hard length again, savoring the agonized groan it elicited. He was close to groaning himself, his own excitement throbbing below. He went on his back and rolled Jack atop him, sandwiching his thighs around the winter spirit's waist, his dovetailed robes spilling to the sides like ink. Pitch could feel the other's erection poking against him. It was torture not to flip him around and have his way. His control starting to slip between his fingers like grains of sand. No. He couldn't. _A little more,_ Pitch thought.

"I don't know what to do," Jack said, still breathing heavily, an almost feverish gleam in his eye.

"I'll show you. Like this, yes." Slowly, never ceasing his coaxing, Pitch rocked himself up until he was positioned on Jack's tip. He bit back a hiss at the shock of cold. "Good. Now, slowly, there you go, _nnn_ yes. Just like that. Ju—ohhhh."

After a few more adjustments, Pitch guided Jack in, pushing at the other's hips until he was fully sheathed. This time he couldn't stop the sharp hiss from spilling past his clenched teeth. The cold distracted him from the burn as his body stretched to accommodate the sudden intrusion. It took several hesitant strokes before Pitch developed a rhythm, breathing through it. Eventually the cold didn't seem quite so intense, the burn not so painful. He held onto Jack's forearms, nails almost breaking skin. If he hurt the winter spirit, the other gave no indication. The flush had deepened on Jack's cheeks, eyes unfocused. He worked his hips, drawing in and out. But he was slow, agonizingly so, his strokes small and shallow. Pitch was almost bucking to find depth. It took everything he had not to grip the narrow hips and force them faster.

"Harder, Jack. Harder."

"I'm afraid I'll hurt you." It sounded like it was difficult for Jack to talk, the words unhinged and uneven.

Pitch would've laughed had he'd not be close to writhing. "You won't hurt me," he said between gritted teeth. "Now stop teasing and get on with it."

Jack did as he was bid, the flex of his hips speeding. He was soon groaning, every other breath a mewl. The sound of their stomachs slapping filled the cavern as the plunges intensified, stroking the sensitive bundles of nerves deep inside Pitch. The Boogeyman locked his ankles around Jack's lower back, forcing him deeper, harder, rocking under the assault, feeling the pressure building from the base of his spine. He looked up at Jack's face, a triumphant smile spilling over as he saw the features above drawn in intense physical pleasure. The pressure was exploding inside him when Jack froze, arms shaking, eyes screwed shut in agonized bliss, and together they rode the waves of indescribable ecstasy. At last Jack shuddered to completion. He slumped against Pitch's chest, boneless. The Boogeyman let him. He closed his eyes, savoring both the afterglow and the victory, relishing the weight atop him, for the sweetest of moments, the emptiness inside him fulfilled.

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

Jamie was telling his sister a ghost story, shining a flashlight up into his face to complete for ghoulish effect. When he reached the climax of his tale her delighted shrieks rang through the open window and into the night. Jack smiled, soft and aching. He was perched on the very edge of the windowsill, balancing on the balls of his feet as he hunched to fit into the cramped space. He rested his cheek on his staff, drinking in every detail as brother and sister played. He knew their bedtime would almost be up. Though the mother didn't know it, Jack knew Sophie liked to sneak into Jamie's room in the middle of the night, after she'd wake up from a nightmare. His smile faded.

Nightmares.

Where once it'd been Sandy's golden sand shimmering in the air, now rode the haunted horses. They never bothered him as they galloped past, but he couldn't shake off the feeling they were staring at him, watching his every move, their lidless orange eyes baleful and distrustful. They'd slip into children's windows and Jack watched as their sleep grew thin and restless, their little faces scrunching in distress. He understood the theory behind preparing kids for the 'real world', but found no joy in it. He vowed Sophie wouldn't suffer the fearlings' touch tonight. For some reason the Nightmares never visited Jamie, a fact Jack was thankful for. It was as if he was the last bright light in the town of Burgess, not exactly _happy_ , but not as grim as his fellow playmates. He still had energy to play with his little sister, and when he laughed, it soothed the deep longing inside the winter spirit. Laughter was a rare commodity these days, Jack found. No matter where he went it seemed children everywhere were tired, less eager to make-believe, their eyes heavy with lavender shadows.

It was easier to ignore what was happening when Jack spent time with Pitch. Though the Boogeyman never forced him to stay in his dank lair, he seemed more relaxed when Jack lingered, the tenseness between his shoulder blades easing. Under Pitch's tutelage Jack quickly gained confidence in lovemaking, and he soon became well-acquainted with the carnal arts. It was as if an inferno had been ignited. The lust burned at his thoughts, the ghost-memory of the heights of pleasure addictive as a drug. He'd never been able to touch as he could now, never had experienced the delights hot fingers and searing embraces could elicit. It seemed Pitch too found it addicting. He would often make overtures to the winter spirit, to which Jack would heartily comply. Jack sometimes experimented with himself, but attempts at self-gratification paled in comparison to rutting with Pitch. The Boogeyman was both patient teacher and lover, equally quick to point out blunders and voice approval. It still sometimes felt odd seeing Pitch in a different light than enemy, but seeing him writhe beneath him, moaning his name, coming undone, soon dispelled much of his wariness. As time passed, a new emotion surfaced. Jack didn't know how to describe the hurt-good cramps whenever he spied the tall, sinuous creature. _Affection_ was too soft a word, but neither was it wrong. All Jack knew was he'd never felt it before. He snorted to think Pitch reciprocated his feelings. They didn't seem to fit Pitch's aloof, brooding persona. Who knew what the Nightmare King felt? Though Jack told himself it was his overactive imagination, sometimes he thought he caught Pitch looking at him, the metal of his eyes soft. Though months had passed and still no child saw him, knowing he was an object of desire filled some of the yawning, aching hole inside him.

Inside Jamie's room the table lamp was shut off, the sudden darkness signaling the end of playtime. _Right on time,_ Jack thought, watching the boy tuck himself in bed. Sophie tried to linger, but their mother was too aware of her daughter's ploys. The girl was scooped up, and soon disappeared from view. Stillness descended on the room. Jamie's breathing slowed and deepened. Jack watched him sleep for a little bit before a quick movement in his peripheral vision pulled him from his thoughts. His mouth tightened as he regarded the snorting fearling. He knew without a shadow of a doubt it was Sophie's. It shook its head, ears pinning back. Jack straightened, frost crinkling up the length of his staff. Nestled in the folds of his hoodie, Baby Tooth squeaked.

"Go on, horseface. Before I freeze your butt off."

The Nightmare made as if to lunge, sharp teeth bared, but a well-placed blast of ice had it wheeling back the way it came, shrieking. Jack watched it go with a self-satisfied grunt, twirling his staff between nimble fingers. Even Baby Tooth took part in the victory, shaking her tiny fist after it, her chirps sounding like scolding.

Jack chuckled a little. "You tell em, Baby Tooth."

He looked across the night, his mirth slowly fading. One Nightmare was one thing: he knew there'd be more, one for every night of the year. He sighed through his nose. He looked up. He'd forgotten about the moon. It seemed smaller than usual, more distant. Instead of its customary silver light it seemed to have taken on a sickly, yellowish cast. If Jack didn't know any better, he'd say the Moon was sick, growing ill and small as the hope and wonder of the world leeched out. The Man in the Moon was the oldest and most powerful of them all, perhaps even older than Pitch, though Jack had his doubts. It would make sense that Pitch's reign would affect the Moon. The longer Jack stared, the more he found he felt nothing: no vindication, no happiness, no sorrow. Since aligning with Pitch, he'd beseeched the Moon less and less, until he realized he'd forgotten the last time he spoke to it.

_Who are you, Jack Frost?_

He was still staring, mind empty and ponderous, when a shimmering beam of light congealed in front of him. At first he was too numb to react. This was a dream. He was hallucinating. He was roused when Baby Tooth squeaked up a storm, utterly besides herself. She hopped down his arm and pointed at the yellow moonlight, switching her gaze between him and it with almost dizzying speed. Jack peered closer. There seemed to be a shape amidst the beam of light, but it was ill-defined, as if held behind a foggy window. Then he recognized it. It was the memory-case, the same one he'd thrown into the ocean nearly six months ago. A frown pulled across Jack's face. He glared up at the Moon.

"Oh, so now you want to talk to me, is that it? Only when it's convenient for you?"

Jack didn't know where all this bitterness was coming from. It was a black tide, clinging to his thoughts like a sticky residue. It coated the roof of his mouth as he said, "You're three hundred years late. Let me guess. You need me to save the Guardians because you're too weak to do it yourself."

There was no answer. The apparition wavered for a moment before blinking out of existence, as if the effort to maintain it was too great. Its absence seemed to leave a rift behind, the silence ringing. Baby Tooth was staring at him, mouth gaping. Jack found himself on the defensive, which irritated him. Why was he suddenly the bad guy? The Moon was the one who had abandoned him to exile and isolation for three centuries. He was the one at fault here.

"Seriously? I ask him and ask him for answers, and only now he says something? Can you blame me?"

She threw him a dark look, the same one Pitch bestowed him when he said or did something particularly stupid. She didn't need words to say exactly what she felt. As with her queen, her intense passions left Jack a little cowed.

In a softer, more contrite tone, he said, "I turned my back on the memories, remember? I can't."

Baby Tooth wouldn't look at him. She clambered up his sleeve and buried herself into his hoodie, wrapping herself up in her little blanket. Jack sighed. She wouldn't understand, nor could she. She hadn't undergone the trauma he had. But Pitch did. Pitch understood. Jack gave Jamie one last lingering look before launching himself into the air, soaring high into the clouds, the October chill relaxing his muscles. He found himself headed back to Pitch's lair without realizing it. Though it wasn't a place of comfort—the realm had not enough open skies for his liking—it held the only creature who actively wanted to help him. Perhaps that was home enough.

He found Pitch at his customary vigil in front of the globe, petting a Nightmare's nose with slow, measured strokes. The twisted bronze sheets seemed covered in a web of glowing white strands, pulsing every so often as if it from some internal heartbeat. Jack wrinkled his nose. He much preferred the warm, golden lights when the Guardians were in power. They seemed more comforting, then.

"My Nightmares tell me you're protecting that girl again," Pitch said in lieu of a greeting. He never stopped stroking the fearling, nor did he glance Jack's way. "Something you'd like to explain?"

"The Man in the Moon spoke to me."

He saw Pitch's eyes widen momentarily, pupils shrinking. The petting stilled. "Oh?" The hands resumed their ministrations, albeit more slowly. Jack couldn't help but hunger for the way the long fingers caressed the muzzle, wishing it was him the hands were touching and not some dirty fearling. "And what did my old friend have to say?"

"Nothing." Jack moved away, circling to the other side of the globe. "Absolutely nothing."

He tried not to jump when Pitch materialized in front of him. The Boogeyman leaned slightly forward, hands clasped behind his back, the metallic eyes piercing Jack in place.

"When my old friend speaks, it's not for 'nothing.' I ask again: what did he say?"

Though his expression was friendly, it seemed fixed, a little too rigid in the corners of the mouth and eyes. Jack realized he could read the Boogeyman's face as easily as his own. _He's nervous,_ he thought. _But of what?_ He felt no fear as he matched the other gaze for gaze. He had no desire to relay what the Man in the Moon said; those were his skeletons, and his alone. The Moon's message suddenly reminded him of something he'd suspected a long time ago, and as he looked up into the wan, coiled visage, he suddenly couldn't resist.

"You don't remember, do you."

Pitch seemed to freeze, face going slack. "What?"

"Your memories." Jack was remorseless. "You don't have them either."

For a moment the winter spirit thought the Nightmare King would fade like smoke and leave. He was surprised when Pitch remained, straightening.

"No." He quarter-turned, showing his profile. "I don't."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

Pitch was getting that closed, no-look expression again. Jack could almost physically hear the other withdrawing. Before the other could sink into himself too deeply, Jack closed the distance between them and placed a hand on the slender black arm. The Boogeyman was so tense his muscles were like iron.

"It's okay," Jack said. "I get it."

"Get what?" Pitch was sullen.

"We both don't like telling things we don't want to," he said, raising his eyebrows for a heavy, significant look.

Pitch seemed to grimace. He understood perfectly. "Fair enough."

Though the scrunch of his features told one story, the Boogeyman's body told another. Jack could feel him relaxing under his touch. The tightness bled away. The familiar hurt-good cramps were twisting in his stomach when Pitch met his gaze. The irises were smoldering with lust, like gold left in a smelter. Jack knew what was going to happen before it did, his eyes already closing when Pitch bent his head. Their lips barely touched when Jack remembered Baby Tooth too late. He tried to pull back, but she was like quicksilver.

"Baby Tooth, _no!_ "

The fairy threw herself at Pitch, jabbing at his eye with her beak. She was a quarter of a second too late: instead of spearing the eye she struck the cheek, her beak jarring on the bone underneath. Pitch yelped and swatted her away as he would a fly, backhanding her hard. Her squeals followed her as she skidded and bounced on the stone floor. Jack leapt to where she rolled to a stop, scooping up the little body and holding her to his chest. In the background Pitch was cursing and stomping, but Jack ignored him. There was a cut on her forehead the length and width of his pinkie's fingernail. Blood was leaking into an eye and one wing was bent. Jack licked a thumb and used it to try and clean the blood away, murmuring _you're okay, you're okay_ like a mantra under his breath. She peered up at him, chirruping. Her smile was shaky, but it filled him with relief. He smiled back.

"That better?" he asked her.

She nodded. He shook his head. The antagonistic relationship between Pitch and her seemed to have gotten worse since Pitch bedded him. She tried to stab the Nightmare King every chance she could, much to Jack's regret and Pitch's ire. He wanted his only two companions in the world to get along, but was soon realizing some old wounds ran too deeply.

The noise in the background grew in volume. "How dare—? That's it. You have to get rid of her."

Jack snorted. "What? No way."

"No? Look what she did to me!"

Jack rose and turned. Pitch was bleeding from under his left eye. It looked like he was crying blood.

"I think you did more damage to her than she did to you," Jack said, still holding Baby Tooth close to his chest. He lifted her up and gently deposited her back into her customary spot. After a moment of wobbling, she buried in. He made sure she was comfortable before resting his staff on his shoulder.

"She aimed for my eye."

"Aw, is Pitch feeling threatened by a little fairy?"

The dark spirit regarded him a little too sharply, changing expressions a little too quickly.

Jack's eyebrows rose. "Wait, seriously?" He laughed. "You totally are!"

"Jack . . ." There was danger in Pitch's voice, hard and raspy like the bristles of a metal comb, but Jack was enjoying himself too much. The big bad Boogeyman, afraid of Baby Tooth? He'd seen it for a split second, before Pitch could cover it up: fear. There was fear there. Maybe not of her, specifically, but something involving her. Jack had little time to wonder more about before Pitch was lunging at him, hands outstretched. But Jack was a streak of greased lightening, licking around the globe before Pitch could even reach him.

"Come back here, Frost!"

"You'll have to catch me first!"

Jack conjured a snowball and threw it as hard as he could, catching Pitch full in the face. The Boogeyman fell sputtering, wiping the snow away. Jack saw in satisfaction it cleaned the blood off the charcoal cheek, revealing the small puncture wound. The Nightmare King seethed at him, his glower promising retribution, but Jack was buoyed by a sensation he hadn't felt in a long time: fun. It seemed to add wind to his wings as he darted every grab and swipe Pitch threw his way. It bubbled within him like champagne, infectious. It felt good to disperse the sudden tension in the room. Jack was everywhere and nowhere. Normally the Boogeyman could catch him, but for some reason he couldn't seem to touch him. He seemed slower. _Or I'm going faster,_ Jack thought, throwing another snowball and watching Pitch roar. The shadow slipped on a sudden patch of ice and went flying. He crashed to the ground in an undignified tangle of limbs.

" _Jack!_ "

But Jack was enjoying himself too much. When he noticed some of the Nightmares starting to amass he decided it was time to beat a retreat. He flew towards the surface, laughing all the while.

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

October came and went. Days grew shorter. As temperatures dropped, so did the leaves on the trees. Soon skeletal branches everywhere were rattling in the freezing wind, morose crows _caw-haw-haw_ ing amidst their cage of fingers. Though never creating a full-blown blizzard, Jack covered the Northern Hemisphere in snow and ice. He greeted the harsh conditions as he would an old friend, embracing the elements. This was when he felt closest to understanding his purpose. Sometimes he teetered so close on the brink of _knowing_ it hurt; when that happened he'd stop what he was doing and listen to the wind, straining so hard he thought his ears would burst. But the answer never came. It eluded him like smoke from an extinguished candle, forever beyond his reach. He was still invisible to children, but Pitch told him not to lose hope. Hope. Jack shook his head. Hope was all he seemed to live for these days. To make matters worse, he was starting to think about the Moon's message. It was a cancer eating at him, never letting him rest. It was in his thoughts when he flew amongst the snowflakes or when he froze the surface of a lake. The only time he could forget was when he rutted with Pitch, but even then it was a momentary respite. Despite all the wonders the Boogeyman offered him, the urge for answers was an itch he couldn't scratch.

_Who are you, Jack Frost?_

North's words haunted him. Jack still hadn't brought himself to visit the former leader of the Guardians. How would the Guardian of Wonder react when he learned Jack joined Pitch? Did he already know? Jack was convinced North's reaction would be so much greater than Tooth's. The thought of North's disappointment still made him cringe, regret and frustration twisting in his gut. He couldn't help but remember how North seemed to look straight through him after the Easter debacle, shutting him off with the brutal finesse of a guillotine. Jack hated that memory. If he could, he would've scoured it from his mind. He sometimes wondered if Pitch ever went to North, even if it were to gloat or do whatever else. Jack didn't ask. The Boogeyman seemed to prickle whenever he inquired about their whereabouts.

"You seem awfully forgetful of the way they blamed you," Pitch had said, growing exasperated after Jack asked a particularly detailed line of questions. After the Baby Tooth incident and the snowball fight, the Boogeyman seemed wary, twitchy. "Promise me you won't go near those washouts again."

"Sure," Jack had said, not really caring. He had other worries.

Mainly, Baby Tooth.

The little fairy was quieter of late, more sluggish. She hardly ever protested when Jack left her in her cushion to go rut Pitch, and when he returned, her squeaks of greeting were few and far between. Jack began to worry it was growing too cold for her. His sojourns took him into the very heart of winter, and he doubted her little blanket was enough. She was losing feathers again. As much as he loathed it, he began to leave her behind more and more, trusting Pitch not to antagonize her while he was gone. Jack wondered if he'd made a mistake. He liked having the little fairy around, but he didn't want her suffering. He missed her tiny rages and beaming smiles. Was she becoming sick like the Moon? _It always leads back to the Moon,_ he thought bitterly.

More time passed. Winter deepened its icy clutch onto the land, burying its teeth with an almost vengeful bite. Jack watched people scuttle by, so heavily wrapped up in their coats and scarves not a single glimmer of humanity peeked through. Children lingered a bit more, more willing to brave the elements than their grownup counterparts, their faces red from the chopping wind, their shrill voices breathless with laughter. Jack oversaw the construction of several towering forts and snow sculptures. He even observed an epic snowball fight. That was before the cold drove the kids inside, mugs of hot chocolate waiting for them. Jack forgot his miseries when he watched them play. They were having fun because of him—indirectly, of course—but the fact remained. But as Christmas approached, Jack grew restless. He kept expecting a giant sleigh swimming in the sky, a great burly figure standing on its bow, cutlasses drawn, a roar of laughter trumpeting though the air. He was growing tired of looking over his shoulder, jittery and full of knots. Christmas was done. North was overthrown.

_Who are you?_

At last Jack couldn't take it. He had to see.

It was simple matter to leave Pitch's lair and fly to the Pole. Before he did, he left Baby Tooth on her cushion. She peered up at him with hollow eyes, chirruping. He tried to smile.

"I'll be gone for a bit, okay? Try not to get into trouble."

The Boogeyman was too enthralled with his globe to notice Jack's departure. It suited the winter spirit just fine. He zoomed into the air and soared above the clouds, rocketing with the force of a bullet. The sky was the colour of blue birds, the atmosphere thin and icy. Jack admired the white, frozen expanse beneath him, enjoying its stillness. It looked as if not a breath stirred throughout the landscape, every tree and house appearing frozen in place. The scenery changed the farther he left civilization, until he was looking at a broad expanse of glittering ice cliffs and sheer drops. Even though it was the middle of the day Jack could see the translucent ghost-moon, tiny and distant. Jack dipped lower, following the path to North's realm by heart, remembering all the times he had tried to sneak in before. Jack wondered if he would ever return to the carefreeness of before the whole business with the Guardians and Pitch. He felt he'd lost a part of himself, which was ridiculous: how could remember what he lost if he didn't even know who he was? Jack gritted his teeth and shook his head. The sooner he got this out of his system, the better.

He dipped closer. North's workshop was still there, a fortress amidst all the ice. Some part of Jack was glad. He had half-expected to find it crumbled to nothing, just as Tooth's Palace had been. Jack didn't like thinking on the heartbreaking destruction. It once took his breath away; he didn't like to think of the purple-gold dust beneath Pitch's heels. As Jack swooped in his eyes narrowed. Something seemed off. He landed next to the skylight and let himself in, shimmying through the small space with inches to spare.

Then he dropped, fully preparing to land on the globe.

"Whoa!"

Jack hovered in mid-air, dangling hundreds of feet above a yawning expanse. The giant globe, once the pride and triumph of the Guardian's realm, had somehow rolled off its axis and was now stories below, smashed to pieces. The balconies that had once teemed with industrious yetis were silent and dark, bereft of any sign of life. Even the elves in their ridiculous red one pieces were absent. Jack dropped to the ground level. Dust lifted at his impact, swirling in the hazy sunbeams. The floorboards creaked and groaned every step he took. When his foot collapsed a weakened strut, only quick thinking saved him from crashing straight through the floor. From then on Jack walked with heightened caution. He held his staff out in front of him, its comforting weight taking the edge off the eerie stillness. The air had a stale, musty quality to it, like the aroma of an attic in summertime. Toys half-made were littered everywhere. Some dolls had only half their faces painted, the other naked. Jack looked around. It looked as if everyone up and left without even putting their things away, brushes and hammers and saws covered in a fine gray layer of dust. He walked by the same exact spot he'd seen the elves playing with the lightbulbs. The lightbulbs were still there, dark, but the elves were gone. _Where is everyone?_ he thought. There weren't even any footprints or animal tracks. Jack's hackles bristled. This was almost worse than Tooth's Palace, and Jack had thought it was the most saddening thing he'd ever seen.

It was one thing to think it, another to see it. It was true: there was to be no Christmas.

The door to North's office was ajar, as if someone had left in a hurry and forgot to close it all the way. When Jack pushed at it with his shepherd's hook it swung open with little resistance, creaking in the dead air. He stepped in, tense. It was as if he'd stepped in the first time. Everything was flash-dried in place, exactly how Jack remembered it. The ice sculpture of the miniature train set was still there, the tiny hammer and chisel next to it. The desk full of treasures. The bookcase. A rocking chair covered in clothes. Jack stepped deeper into the room, his footfalls muffled on the persian carpet. At first he thought the room was dim. Then he realized there was a thick layer of dust on the paneled windows. For some reason he was filled with the desire to wipe them. North always kept his workshop impeccably clean. He moved to them, staff dropping.

"Jack Frost?"

Jack whirled around, for a single skyrocketing second thinking it was Pitch. What he had mistaken for a bundle of discarded clothes was North himself. Jack was struck by how _old_ he seemed. The first time he'd seen the boisterous bear of a man he was fully prepared to anoint Jack as Guardian, his laughter booming through the warm space. Now he was sitting in a rocking chair, bundled nearly head to toe in a gigantic quilt. The once-white beard had a grayish cast, as did the red skin. _Dust,_ Jack thought with dawning horror. _He's covered in dust._

"North?" he said, not moving closer, not even when relief stirred in his chest.

"I can't believe it. It's really you!"

"Uh, that's right. It's me."

"Ha! It's good to see you again!" North began to shed the quilt, dislodging clumps of gray. He moved as if every motion ached, clutching at the small of his back as he stood.

Jack frowned. "You mean you're happy to see me?"

For all the things Jack had prepared for, for all the scenarios he'd rehearsed, North being excited wasn't one of them. He found himself caught flat-footed, staring as the Guardian heaved himself up and hobbled to the bookshelf.

"Of course! Why wouldn't I? Fruitcake?" North started to reach down to pick up the silver plate containing the fruitcake, but grimaced and seemed to think better of it. He instead slid it towards Jack. Jack's stomach flip-flopped in revulsion. It was gray with dust.

"Uh, that's okay."

"Ah, no matter. Fruitcake old. I see you hungry for something else. What is it? What is it." North began to peer at Jack through squinted eyes, stroking his beard. Jack wanted to duck from the intense scrutiny. This wasn't at all how he'd imagined this conversation going. This was the old North, excitable and full-in-your-face. This was bringing up too many good memories. Suddenly Jack regretted coming.

"Actually, I'm uh, I'm not that hungry. Thanks, though."

"Then, what are you doing here?"

_Who are you, Jack Frost?_

The sudden change of topics took the winter spirit off guard. "I—" Jack hesitated. What was he doing here? It seemed so clear before. The haunted eeriness of the workshop seemed to leech the coherency from his mind. Even North's cheer suddenly seemed disturbing like hearing laughter at a funeral. He coughed and looked around. "What happened? Where is everyone?"

North sighed. "Gone."

"What do you mean, 'gone'?"

"When Pitch came, he took everything: children's hopes, dreams, and wonder. The yetis and elves go away, deep into mountain. Now I stay, too old to move. Ha. It very funny."

"North, I . . . about that. I should probably . . ." Jack took a deep breath. "I'm with Pitch."

"Pitch." North slumped back down in his chair absently, staring at Jack with a blank expression. "You're with the Boogeyman?"

This was better. This was what Jack had prepared for. He regained his footing in the frustration and anger, finding comfort in the familiar rush of hurt. _See? See what you made me do?_ he screamed with his eyes, unable to voice the words himself. This was Tooth's Palace all over again, except this time he wanted to look at North's reaction and know, once and for all, how sorry the Guardian was for all of this. _It didn't have to be this way,_ Jack thought in anguish. _You could've kept believing in me._

"Yeah. You know, after Easter, it kinda made sense to."

North was quiet, eyes round and wide. He seemed to look right through Jack, seeing something beyond his comprehension. When North spoke again, his voice was quiet with wonder.

"You are so desperate to find out who you are, you forget who you really are."

Jack instantly bristled. "And who am I? If you're so clever, tell me who am I."

"And you think someone like Pitch can tell you? Only you can say."

The saddened look of sympathy North gave Jack only riled him up more. Where was the apology? Where was the regret? Had North forgot how easily he'd dismissed him? How they all had?

"That doesn't even make sense. How can I possibly know something I don't know? Don't you think I've tried?" Jack found himself pacing. "I've been trying to figure who I am for three hundred years! I've done everything! Even when the Moon showed—"

North broke out in delighted laughter. " _Ah_! He spoke to you!"

"The Moon only showed me the memory-case. He didn't 'speak' to me," Jack said, but North was already shaking his head.

"No, no, no. He spoke, and said a lot. He says answer you seek lies within the memories. You must see them, Jack! There you will find what you've been looking for!"

Jack felt his momentum bleeding away. The anger cooled and congealed in his chest, lining his throat as finely as the dust surrounding him. He stopped pacing and stared at the Guardian. Gazing into the other's eagerness made him almost believe this was the same spirit who wanted him to be a Guardian so badly he had Jack shoved in a sack and tossed through a magic portal. The dam he'd tried so hard to build began to crumble, questions he had tried so hard to forget rising unbidden.

"Why?" Jack said, pouring everything in that one word, trying to stuff all of his confusion and misery into the confines of that tiny exhalation. "Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to help me? I thought . . . I thought you didn't believe in me anymore."

North blinked. "What?" he said, and Jack could hear genuine horror in his voice. The Guardian gave a vehement shake of his head, causing dust to fly everywhere in a gray, cloying cloud. "Never. We never stopped believing in you, Jack, even when you stopped believing in yourself. We were wrong to blame you. We tried looking for you after Easter, but by then our powers had grown too weak. I couldn't even control my sleigh. We were lost. We thought maybe you got away before Pitch came. _Tah_! No matter, no matter. We wipe clean the slate."

Jack didn't know how to react to North's forgiveness. There was a maelstrom of emotions in his chest, too mixed up tell one from the other. He had been so convinced the others had abandoned him for so long, the release from its burden was almost uncomfortable. He stood in North's office, stiff and silent, unable to help thinking Pitch somehow knew all of this. His stomached cramped, but it wasn't the hurt-good pain he got when he thought about Pitch writhing beneath him. He took a step back, using a shelf to steady himself.

North drew him out of his thoughts. "Well? Where are they?"

Jack winced, suddenly more ashamed of this than joining Pitch. "I threw them into the ocean."

"Well? What are you waiting for? Go, go! Find them! There is not moment to lose! Go!"

"But—what about you?"

North laughed, and though it was a pale shadow of what it once was, Jack could still hear the old Guardian beneath. "I'll be fine. Help yourself first. I'll still be here."

Jack did need any more encouragement. He kicked himself into a run and the next minute was soaring through the skylight, leaving the silent, abandoned Pole behind. It felt good to leave. As much as he was glad for visiting North, he felt both inestimably lighter and heavier, the duality creating an onslaught of emotions he was unwilling to handle right now. He didn't want North seeing him like this. He couldn't shake the gnawing feeling Pitch had known about the memories. Why else offer them the first time Jack entered his lair? And just before Easter, too. No. It was impossible. Jack shook his head as if rattling the treacherous thoughts could keep them quiet. Pitch had done nothing but look out for him. He'd given him a home, supported him, opened his world to physical pleasure, mentored him. Why would he've done all of this if he knew the Guardians still believed in him? The implications were too awful to consider. Jack flew in silence, headed straight for Antarctica, unable to help being reminded of Pitch and North's globes and the current state of the children below.

By the time he landed in the frozen wasteland, both his heart and mind were heavy. Nervousness fluttered in his stomach as he regarded the empty, desolate stretches of ice, the peace he'd always felt coming here eluding him. He strained his ears for the haunting _jaaack, jaaaack_ , but he heard nothing but the wind whistling through the floes. Jack walked along until he came across the familiar ice-sculpture. It towered above all else, jagged and imperious. It reminded him of Pitch, aloof and forbidding, monumental. But the longer he stared at it, the less he saw himself. Did he truly only represent violence and power? Jack shook his head. It seemed such a long time had passed since that fateful moment when Pitch proposed they join forces.

_You are so desperate to find out who you are, you forget who you really are._

Jack walked to the outlook, the same one from which he'd thrown the memory-case. He stood on its edge, staring into the nothingness that was the Antarctic expanse. It had changed since the last time he'd been there, the once-open ocean now covered in consolidated pack-ice sheets miles thick. Jack's mouth tightened. He hadn't come this far to let a little ice stand in his way. He threw himself into the air. When he reached a height that rendered the ice sculpture to little more than a burr on the landscape, he began his descent, clutching his staff to his side. His eyes watered, the wind howling in his ears as he plummeted. Just before crashing into the ice he thrust the staff out in front of him. He hit the pack-ice like a bullet entering meat, staff thrust ahead of him at the last instant. There was a groaning, cracking, black, and dizzying second where he was nothing but an arrow in the cold. Then he was through.

The ocean was dark, but the magic imbued in his staff glowed a faint blue. He could feel the currents pulling all around him. He kicked his legs and clung onto the staff as he headed towards the seabed. Jack had no way of knowing whether or not it had drifted on the currents or if it had sunk to the bottom. The winter spirit tried to ignore the way the murky darkness pressed all around him, frog-kicking Eventually shapes came into view, vague at first, then with growing clarity. He cast his staff around, searching for a metallic, telltale glint.

_Jaaack._

Jack froze, suspended, heart pounding in his chest. His efforts redoubled.

_Jaaaack!_

He swam towards the voice, a roiling mixture of eagerness and trepidation curdling in his stomach. Then he found it. Some sort of animal— _a seal,_ Jack thought—had tried to eat it and had choked; its carcass had been long picked clean by all manner of scavengers, though a few colourful starfish and crabs still encrusted the bones. Jack sunk down and grabbed it from the remains of its throat. It was heavy and cold in his hand, but its soft golden light made it feel warmer. He clutched it to his chest and kicked off the bottom in an icy cloud of mud and debris. Jack soared upward, back through the hole he came. He shook the water out of his hair, the droplets already freezing before they touched the ground. Only when he landed back near the ice sculpture did he uncurl his fingers around the case. Turning it over in his hands, he noted details achingly designed to compliment the former glory of the Tooth Palace, complete with golden lining and chevrons in purple and green enamel. One end sported a simple cartoon of his face. Though the hair and eyes were someone else's lacquered brown, the smile was all Jack, wicked and playful. He took a deep, steadying breath. _Okay,_ he thought, _you can do this._ He brushed the centre diamond with an index finger.

The case unfurled.

It was like falling into a dream, though it was no dream Jack had ever experienced. It was a visceral and real as his next breath. He could almost smell the meat on the fire, taste the fragrance in the air as the scene changed from him playing with moose antlers to rolling in a grassy meadow. Every scene had an element of joy, of a carefreeness he had long forgotten, and the more he watched, the more he realized none of this was a surprise. This was him, truly him. Everything was making sense. He saw his memory-self playing pranks in the village, saw him cause a gathering of children to roar with laughter. _I had friends,_ Jack thought. _A sister._ He wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. _I had a home._ Then the scene changed.

"You're okay, you're okay."

"Jack, I'm scared!"

"I know, I know," his memory-self said. A spiderweb of ice fractures blossomed around her trembling skates. He masked his wince with a reassuring smile. "We're going to have a little fun instead."

The girl stared at his memory-self with big brown eyes, looking at him like Baby Tooth sometimes did, wide and trusting. "No, we're not," she said, voice high with accusing fear. "You always play tricks!"

"You have to believe in me, okay? That's it, that's it. One . . . two . . . three!"

His memory-self grabbed the girl with his staff and threw her to thicker ice. Jack watched as the rotten ice gave away almost in slow motion, cracking beneath his feet. It pulled his human body down into the dark depths, where Jack watched himself drown. The last memory was of the Moon, growing bigger and bigger until it seemed to swallow the sky.

Jack woke up. He found himself sitting on the ground, staring at the suddenly silent memory-case, basking in a glow so warm and absolute he felt like he'd just reached completion inside Pitch's body. He wanted to scream and laugh and tell everyone in the world the good news, his body wanting to go in so many directions he sat frozen in place, vibrating with so many bottled emotions. _I made her believe in me._ He laughed. Once he started, he couldn't stop, his laughter rolling across the silent beached floes like crashing waves. The heady rush of wonder swept through him. A sense of wholeness like never before flooding him with the force of a tsunami, washing away all other thoughts as if they were motes of dust. His sense of fun had saved her. _That's why the Man in the Moon chose me! Why I'm a Guardian!_ He had to tell Baby Tooth. He shot to his feet. He had to tell—

Pitch.

In that instant the aura of unfathomable peace dried up. Jack faltered, the inside of his mouth like cotton. Pitch. _He knew, didn't he,_ Jack thought. _He knew the memories were the key._ If he did, why didn't he mention it when Jack threw them away? No. He was jumping to conclusions. _I'll have to talk to Pitch about this,_ he thought, but for some reason, the prospect brought him no joy. For the briefest of moments, his life had direction. He knew why he was chosen to be among the ranks of Guardians. But now his life was once again rudderless. He couldn't be a Guardian and be with Pitch at the same time, yet now he knew how to make children believe in him. He was torn in two, upset and confused as to why Pitch would trick him into abandoning the Guardians in the first place. Jack kicked off the ground. This circular thinking would get him nowhere. The sooner he talked to Pitch, the sooner he could put this behind him.

By the time Jack returned to Pitch's lair, he was jittery and restless. The realm seemed darker than usual, stiller, without a single breath of life. The Nightmare King wasn't at his globe. Jack avoided it, the pulsing white lights suddenly obscene. _Maybe he's handing out Nightmares,_ he thought. He hurried to the cushion where he'd left Baby Tooth, the urge to tell another living creature what he learned almost maddening.

The cushion was empty.

Jack stared at it for several heartbeats, uncomprehending. Baby Tooth never left its safety. The blanket was gone too. Stupidly, he lifted it and searched all around, in case she was hiding just out of view. The more he looked, the more the pressure of dread twisted his stomach. How long was he gone? It couldn't have been more than a day. He stood still, willing the panic back. Could she've wandered off? He called to her, soft at first, then with increasing volume. Nothing but darkness and empty cages answered back. She was gone.

He was still standing there, trying to control his breathing, when he felt more than heard Pitch's approach. He turned. The Boogeyman oozed out of the darkness, hands clasped behind his back. He glided on soundless feet towards Jack, tall and sinuous, a placid expression on his face. Jack rounded on him.

"Where is she, Pitch?"

"Hello to you too," Pitch said.

"Baby Tooth's not in her spot. Where is she."

Pitch shrugged, the apathy never lifting. The metal in his eyes seemed to dance. "How should I know?"

Jack gritted his teeth. Pitch was being deliberately obtuse. "Stop it. We both know how much you don't like her."

Pitch gave a tight little smile. "Well, if you're asking my opinion . . . you know what they say about animals and death."

Jack recoiled, eyes flying wide. "You saying she left to die?" That was impossible. She was fine when he said goodbye to her. And besides, Baby Tooth was immortal. She couldn't 'die' . . . could she? _Sandy died,_ the still, small voice in his head whispered. _Pitch made sure of that._ Jack's brow furrowed. "Baby Tooth is no more animal than you or me. Now stop fooling around, Pitch. Where is she?"

"Clearly, you're not listening to anything I'm saying. I didn't see where the parasite tottered off to," Pitch said, his tranquil air dissolving into irritation. He peered at Jack, eyes growing shrewd, appraising him. "You smell of saltwater. Where have you been?"

Jack took a step closer and withdrew the memory-case from his hoodie's pocket. Anger was building inside him, but it was cold, like layers of permafrost. Pitch had done something to Baby Tooth. Guilt gnawed at him. He should've never left her alone for so long.

"I saw my memories."

Pitch's eyes fixated on the golden case in Jack's hand. "I can see that," he said, soft and dangerous.

When the Boogeyman said nothing more, Jack pressed, "Is that all you can say? Aren't you going to ask me what I learned?"

"What did you learn, Jack?" Pitch said, voice distant. He still hadn't taken his eyes off the memory-case. He seemed unusually fascinated with the little cylindrical object. He licked his lips with a gray tongue.

"That I'm supposed to be a Guardian."

Pitch seemed to freeze and congeal. His gaze finally flicked up to meet Jack's, his dark face inscrutable. He said nothing. For some reason his silence angered Jack even more, the traitorous thought _He knew_ wrapping tendrils of ice around his heart. The hurt and betrayal stung harder than he anticipated. His stomach cramped, driving the wind from his lungs. He could've had everything, could've been a Guardian. If he had learned those memories sooner, the world's children could've kept their hopes, dreams, and wonder. The Guardians would've won and none of this would've happened. Now Baby Tooth was missing, no doubt gone. Grief surged within him like a cold fire, burning in his chest.

"You knew," Jack said. He took a heavy step closer, perversely enjoying the way Pitch seemed to tense.

"Jack, wait," Pitch said, holding up a palm, low and earnest. "Hear me out, please. Everything I did was done in good intention for your benefit. I didn't want to trick you. Really. I knew if you listened to those soft fools, they wouldn't have taught you the truth of the world. I was doing you a favor. I _helped_ you."

Jack stood silent and still, remembering something Pitch had told him all those months ago: _There is no wonder or happiness or happy dreams; there is only the harshness of existence._ _It's cold and dark out there, and without my fear, and your winter, they wouldn't learn._ Cold fury was hardening at his core, each thought covered in a layer of ice. Had he been nothing but a pet project? clay for Pitch to mold? His anger must've leaked because Pitch seemed to blanch. The Boogeyman covered his expression under a smooth, unreadable mask, but Jack had seen the flash of apprehension.

"So, you apologize for nothing, then?" Jack asked. "Like you won't apologize for Baby Tooth?"

"I already told you—"

"Or how you tried to kill Tooth?"

"She was—"

"And Sandy? What about him?"

"I won't apologize for what was done in war," Pitch said, curling his lip. He straightened, footing regained. A tendon corded in his neck, forehead wrinkling. "You shouldn't either."

"So I shouldn't apologize for this?"

Jack closed the distance between them and devoured Pitch's lips with his own. He could feel the other tense against him in surprise. When Pitch returned the kiss the sharp, uneven teeth cut Jack's mouth, but he didn't care. Jack pulled back long enough to throw a blast of cold, aimed straight at Pitch's chest. The Boogeyman dodged it with breathtaking grace. He ducked, heading towards the safety of the shadows, where once reached, the most determined hunting would never yield him. Pitch saw the patch of black ice too late. He was already slipping when Jack slammed him onto the ground with enough force to click his jaws together. They rolled together in a tangle of limbs before Jack flipped the Boogeyman onto his back and straddled the narrow chest. Both were breathing hard. Pitch recognized the position and stopped struggling, becoming motionless and rigid, his expression unreadable.

"Or this?" Jack kissed and bit at the gray lips with increasing violence, until the Boogeyman was grunting.

"Jack—"

"Relax. It'll hurt less if you do," Jack said, mocking the advice often given him. Had the lovemaking, too, been nothing but a cruel trick? All those intimate moments, a sham? Anger and humiliation surged within Jack, flushing his cheeks pink. He had surrendered to Pitch, had given him body and soul. With quick, practiced moves he unbuttoned his pants one-handed, never taking his eyes off Pitch's. When the Boogeyman turned his head to the side Jack took the charcoal chin and palmed the dark face back to him. He wanted to look into Pitch's eyes when he took him, so he would know what having innocence and trust ripped out looked like. Jack pushed the knees apart and pressed the tip of his length to the dark, intimate place. He entered the Boogeyman in one smooth stroke, instantly engulfed in the familiar tight heat. He didn't bother going slow. Pitch was hissing and clenching his teeth, groaning more in pain than in pleasure. It fueled Jack's lust and anger and he fucked Pitch again, harder than he knew the other liked. The Boogeyman was quiet, the usual breathy moans silent. He was stiff beneath Jack's fingers, staring ahead, eyes heavy-lidded.

"I was supposed to be a Guardian," Jack said. He gripped Pitch's slender hips for traction with bruising force, punctuating every word with a hard thrust. He didn't know if he was sobbing or shouting. "I trusted you. I believed you."

Though Jack had never intentionally killed someone, he knew cold could turn warm flesh into brittle meat. He released some of his control and watched as shivers began to rack Pitch's body in response to the sudden internal chill. Jack increased the tempo of his plunges. The Nightmare King began to breathe in uneven, choppy soughs, just as he did before reaching climax, and except not at all. His hands were fisting his robes, knuckles white. When the familiar pressure built in Jack's lower spine he shouted his completion, trembling from the strain of the pleasure. When he was done he collapsed on the other's chest, catching his breath. He could feel Pitch tremoring beneath him, though from the cold or from some fear, Jack couldn't tell.

At last Jack disengaged. Pitch winced as he slid out, knees drawing together as if in great pain. He remained prone even when Jack got up and cleaned himself off, buttoning his pants. Only when a tiny squeak broke the silence did the Boogeyman turn his head. Jack looked up. It was Baby Tooth, clutching her blanket around her like a shawl. She rubbed a sleepy eye and peered at them, frowning. She chirruped again.

"So she appears," Pitch said in a no-voice.

Jack stared at Baby Tooth in stupefied horror, eyes growing round. The darkness and dead light pressed all around him, suffocating, the single thought _What have I done?_ crashing all others to a halt. Suddenly Baby Tooth's confusion and Pitch's quiet, knowing stare was too much. Without a single word Jack snatched up his staff and fled.

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

_Seems like the spider's getting tangled in his own web._

The Tooth's Fairy's words sank into Pitch like fangs as he stared up into the darkness above him, trying to control the throbbing pain. He didn't watch Jack's departure, knowing the winter spirit was long gone by now. He was in no state to catch him, even if he had wanted to. When Jack had entered him he had thought the ache had been his imagination but it had persisted, growing stronger until he could only describe it as burning. Jack had done that, intentionally. Never before had the pain been so bad. It was as if a hot poker had been shoved inside him and left there. Pitch breathed through his nose, unwilling to move. He stretched one leg then another, experimenting, feeling the deep wincing ache. He was cold, unbearably so. Then he realized it was ice inside his soul, its cold tendrils wrapping around his heart and squeezing until all he felt was the frostbitten grasp.

_I was supposed to be a Guardian._

Pitch bared his teeth in a twisted snarl, squinting in hurt. He had recognized the same iron, fathomless regard, the fury so cold it was the temperature of outer space. He had underestimated Jack for the last time. _Never again,_ he thought, and a shard of pain that had nothing to do with the rape speared through him. He rolled onto his side, propping himself on an elbow. He looked up. The parasite hadn't moved, clutching her blanket as if it would protect her. Her little eyes were as round as nickles, catchlights glistening in the dead air.

"You've ruined my plans for the final time," he said, never hating any creature so much as he did her in that very moment. The little fairy stared back. She didn't run. Then again, she probably knew fleeing would do her little good. Pitch groaned and tried to sit up. He slumped back down, panting. It took two more tries before he could crawl to her. She still hadn't move, watching his approach with calm eyes. Pitch realized he was looking at her resignation. He snatched her up, the blanket falling to the stones below. She was so tiny in his hand, so fragile. One tiny squeeze and she'd pop like a grape. Pitch relished the rush of control and power as he held her life in his hands, feeling some broken, frostbitten part of himself regain sensation. But as he brought her to his face, toying with how slow and painful he could make her demise, a darker, more nefarious idea came to him. He smiled his most deranged grin at the little fairy, enjoying the way some of her calmness gave way to fear.

"Actually, you're going to help me," he said, "with a certain Jack Frost."

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

Two days passed since Jack left Pitch's realm.

Because he had nowhere else to go, Jack had found himself heading towards the one place he could still draw comfort: Jamie's house. He had wedged himself onto the windowsill and hadn't moved there, hood drawn up over his head, knees hugged to his chest. He was beyond miserable. He felt dirty inside, as if everything good inside him had been rolled in filth. He didn't even deserve to watch Jamie sleeping; he deserved nothing. He hugged himself tighter, too numb to do anything but stare blankly forward. It was still very early morning in Burgess, pre-dawn, the world tinted a deep ultramarine. The boy inside shivered in his sleep and drew the covers tighter around himself, but Jack didn't see. He was too busy remembering every agonizing detail of Pitch's face when he took what should've never been his to take in the first place.

"I've done something terrible, Jamie," Jack said, quietly, voice rough and scratchy from disuse and grief. "Something I don't think I can come back from."

Pitch had told him—had _told_ him he had nothing to do with Baby Tooth's disappearance. If he had just listened to Pitch instead of doing what he did, if he had just believed him . . . _He could've fought back,_ Jack thought in desperate anguish, _could've told me to stop._ He replayed the horrible scene in his head, searching for a _no,_ but all he could remember was the shove and pull of his hips, the body beneath him, the searing ecstasy. He couldn't remember anything else. What would the Guardians think? Jack's stomach curdled. His dreams of being one of them lay dashed against the rocks, broken and scattered. It was as if his life had been carved into _before_ and _after_ , and now, with nowhere to go, no one to turn too, he felt he had lost a precious part of himself.

Jack was so caught up in his own thoughts he almost didn't catch the sudden change in the air. He'd recognize it even if he were deaf, dumb, and blind. He looked down and found Pitch standing on the snowy lawn with all the sleekness of an oil spill, gazing up at him.

"Hello, Jack." The words were soft but carrying.

"Pitch!" Jack's tongue choked up. He almost fell off the windowsill in surprise.

Pitch cocked his head. There was something different about him, something Jack hadn't noticed in the Boogeyman since the Guardians' reign. Then he realized its cause: the irises no longer held the smoldering warmth but were flat and chilly, edged like watered steel.

"You seem surprised to see me." Pitch took a step forward. Only the stiff way he walked bespoke of any lingering pain.

"I . . . I didn't think . . ." Jack couldn't finish, miserable beyond recounting.

"You forget I am part of the darkness of this world." Pitch smiled, but there was something brittle about it, something near its breaking point. "It'll take more than that to indispose the Boogeyman."

Jack didn't know what else to do. "I'm sorry," he said, but the words were too flimsy, too insignificant. He was trying to empty an ocean with a bucket. They were hollow and worthless, yet that was all he could say as he left his perch and landed in front of Pitch. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh, Pitch, I'm so sorry."

Pitch lifted a hand, cutting Jack's babbling with a surgeon's precision. "Don't be. You were upset. It's natural to act that way."

"No, it wasn't. What I did . . ." There were no words to describe what he did. Even the word 'rape' seemed too gentle.

Pitch shook his head, that strange smile still on his lips. It seemed almost sad, but there was something off, as if it were coiled too tightly around an electric wire. "What's done is done. Besides, you didn't really think I'd let you go without saying goodbye, did you?"

Jack woke up enough from his floundering grief and anguish to frown. "'Goodbye'?"

"Yes, Jack. I underestimated your ties with those pathetic losers. But not anymore. After all, you've clearly made your decision, and quite . . . _forcefully_ , might I add. You want to be a Guardian? Fine. You'll be a Guardian. But that means I treat you like one." Pitch held out his hand. The bottom of Jack's stomach dropped as he saw Baby Tooth clutched in his fist.

"Baby Tooth!"

"Ah, ah, ah, you stay _right here._ Take another step and you'll see exactly what I can do to her." Pitch tightened his grip. Jack clenched his teeth at Baby Tooth's wails.

"Okay, okay, I'm not moving," he said. "Stop hurting her!"

"Just making sure I have your undivided attention," Pitch said, words silky like the rainbow sheen on an oil drop. "You sure lacked it before."

Jack flushed an ugly red. He said nothing, shame rendering him mute.

When Pitch saw Jack wasn't going to interrupt him, he continued in the same oily tone, "Poor Jack. You see, it never really was about you. It was about defeating those sycophantic Guardians, which, I should mention, I have you to thank." At Jack's sudden flinch, Pitch's smile stretched into a leer. It carved through Jack more savagely than any rusty blade. "You didn't think I did it all by myself, did you? Sure, I stole all those fairies and teeth, killed dear old Sandy, ruined Easter, but you helped demoralize those fools in a way I never could."

"Stop it." Jack's breathing was growing heavy. "Stop it!"

"No. I don't think I will." In the deep blue of the morning light Pitch's eyes seemed to glow with an inner fever, pupils pinpricks of fury. Baby Tooth wailed again when the fist around her spasmed and tightened. "You want the truth so badly? Very well. Did you know they still believed in you, even after you ran? They were so ready to accept you back into their fold, so ready to forgive. But do you think they'll accept you now, after what you've done to them? To _me_?"

Pitch took a heavy step forward. His voice had tightened to the point of strangulation. "You may've been Guardian material before, but you certainly aren't now."

There was a tight knot where Jack's heart used to be, and as he stared up into the Boogeyman's snarled, bitter face, all he could see was the same unspeakable anguish mirrored back at him.

"I'm so sorry," Jack whispered.

Pitch froze for a second in time before his expression smoothed into a cool, aloof mask. "The time for apologies is at an end," he said with cutting dismissiveness. "Have I taught you nothing? No," he said, pensive, brow furrowing, "perhaps there's still time for one last lesson. Consider it my parting gift, so you'll understand the oldest truth of the world."

"Pitch, wait—"

"Feel what it is to lose everything you've ever held dear. Attempt to contact me, and she dies. Attempt to rescue her, and she dies. Do anything to oppose me, and she dies, and your little friend's death will be on your hands and your hands alone." Pitch retreated a step, than another. "You see? No matter what you do, no matter what you say, you'll always end up alone."

Then Pitch and Baby Tooth were gone, dispersing in the air like smoke from an extinguished candle, gone before Jack could utter a single sound, leaving him staring into the empty lawn. Jack didn't know how long he stayed there, frozen in place, listening to the shuttered sound of his breathing. The emptiness was very loud, buzzing in his ears. He only woke up when Jamie and Sophie trudged past him, bundled in what seemed to be every piece of warm clothing they had, heading towards school. Sophie was complaining to Jamie of her most recent nightmare, the one with the fishes eating her toes right off her feet. Jamie patiently explained those types of fish lived in the Amazon and were nowhere near Burgess. Yes, he'd make sure there were no toe-eating fish in the bathtub and no, he wouldn't do her homework for her. The sight of their linked hands brought on a fresh wave of hurt. _Baby Tooth,_ Jack thought. He couldn't imagine the horrors Pitch could put her through. She probably thought he'd already abandoned her.

No.

Not this time.

Jack's mouth tightened. He had failed her—all of them—once, and it had cost them everything. He'd be damned if he made the same mistake twice. He'd been absent for so long, the world was almost unrecognizable without the wonder and happiness; Pitch had done his work well. But not all things had changed for the worse: Jack had his memories. He knew why the Moon chose him to be a Guardian. _I need someway to live with myself,_ Jack thought. If he didn't try to rectify things, there was no telling what he would do to himself. Within the first few seconds it became clear he couldn't go to the Guardians for help. Without their powers, they were no doubt stranded in their respective realms. They would have to wait. _The kids,_ Jack thought. The kids were the key. Without the power of their belief, the Guardians would have no way to defeat Pitch. _No,_ he thought. _Pitch is my problem now._ The familiar misery threatened to overwhelm him, but he shoved it back with a vengeance. He couldn't afford to wallow, not now, not when so much was at stake. _Just wait a little longer, Baby Tooth. I'll save you._ He squeezed everything to do with the Boogeyman into a tiny box, letting grim determination fill him instead.

Jack waited outside the Bennett's house until nightfall, the yellow moonlight casting deep, long shadows. Bedtime came and went. Jamie was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, breathing deepening. Jack waited another few minutes before unlatching the frost-covered window and creeping in. He switched grips on his staff and padded down the hallway. He was half-way to Sophie's room when he heard the tell-tale nicker of a Nightmare. Jack burst in her room. It had transformed into fish with huge, needled teeth and was floating above her head like a malignant cloud. Then it perceived Jack. It rounded on Jack as he entered, morphing back to its equine form, ears pinned and nostrils flared.

"Come at me, horsebreath," he said.

It was already lunging when a small shape burst into the room.

" _Get away from her!_ "

Jack's eyes widened. It was Jamie, waving his arms to stall the fearling.

Several things happened at once.

The Nightmare bowled Jamie over. Sophie woke up and screamed. Jack unleashed a calculated blast of ice. In the confines of the tiny room there was little room to avoid it; the Nightmare took it straight in the chest, its shrill peal of rage died as it hit the ground in a frozen chunk of sand. Heartbeats passed, nobody moving. Sophie had stopped her crying and was staring at it with eyes the size of dinner plates. _They can see the Nightmare,_ Jack thought. Of course; without the Guardians in the world, children would only believe in fear and darkness.

Jamie whirled around, hair disheveled and eyes wild. "Who's there? Who did that?"

Jack ignored the boy and went to crouch on Sophie's bedpost, balancing on the balls of his feet on the smooth wood. He was close enough to see her lips trembling, eyes wet with unshed tears, heavy lavender bags giving her a haunted, hollow look. His heart ached for her.

"You're okay, you're okay," he murmured. "That's it, kiddo. Here, look. What's that?"

With a flick of his fingers the solid form of a rabbit peeled itself off the frosty window and hopped over to her. The girl's eyes lit up in delight as the rabbit performed pirouettes and loop-de-loops in front of her. She clapped her hands and laughed.

"Bunny!" she said. Her giggles increased as snowflakes began to fall from inside the room.

Jack smiled, but it was gone before it could really form. He tried to quell the familiar disappointment as she continued to peer through him. "That's better. Ol' horseface isn't so scary now, is he?" he said quietly.

"Jack . . . Frost?"

Jack froze. He looked across the room. Jamie was staring— _staring—_ straight at him, forehead wrinkled, eyes screwed into slits. Jack didn't dare believe his ears. This was that long-ago summer day all over again, except the dim, animal part of himself knew this was inexplicably different. Hope was a feeble flame in his chest, growing each passing second Jamie didn't look away.

"That's me. That's my name. He said my name."

Jamie straightened. The previous fear was rapidly evaporating. His eyes widened. "Jack Frost? Is that—is that you?"

Jack fell off Sophie's bedpost and staggered to his feet. "He said it again! You can see me?"

Jamie nodded, eyes wide, mouth agape. Jack burst out in laughter. A sun had exploded in his chest, striking him blind. He wanted to cry and scream with happiness at the same time. "He sees me! He sees me!"

"Jack Fost?"

Jack looked down and saw Sophie staring at him. Jack kneeled in front of her, unable to stop the stupid grin from spreading across his face. "Hey there, kiddo. Feeling better now?"

She nodded like her brother, smiling. One of her front teeth was missing. In an instant his joy sobered, descending from its soaring heights to simmer as a warm, rosy heat. _Tooth would've wanted that,_ he thought. He was still mulling when Sophie reached out and touched his cheek with the uninhibited frankness of a child. The tips of her fingers were cool, chilled from playing with the frost bunny. She didn't phase through. Jack thought he was dying, so great was his happiness. This was a dream, a marvelous, wonderful dream he never wanted to wake up from. _Pitch is still out there,_ the small voice in his head whispered, _and with Baby Tooth._

"You're real." Jamie's voice was full of wonder. He moved closer, standing in the moonlight. "I—I always thought there was something out there . . . something more than just—"

"Scary horsies," Sophie said, shuddering. The frost bunny snuggled her cheek, making her giggle.

Jack smiled again, softer now, sadder, keenly aware he helped Pitch cause that. The poor girl probably hadn't had a good night's sleep in months. "Scary horses? Ha, they've got nothing on me. I'm the scariest one of all."

Here Jack gave a mock growl and wiggled his fingers above his head. Sophie squealed and giggled again. Her laughter was champagne bubbles against Jack's skin, ticklish and unexpected. He'd heard children laugh before, but never before directly at his antics.

Jamie drew closer still, eyes shining. Snowflakes were getting caught in his hair. "Wait, wait. So, so if you're real . . . then . . . the others are really real too?"

"You got it, kiddo."

"Yes!" Jamie fist-pumped the air. He instantly cringed, glancing at the open door. The hallway remained quiet, the parents still asleep. He continued in an excited whisper, "I knew it! I mean, I always thought so, especially after I thought I saw them once, but after what happened last Easter and this Christmas . . ." the boy trailed off, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish grimace. "I mean, how can there be Santas and Tooth Fairies if there's monsters out there?" He pointed to the black sand still frozen to Sophie's floor. "I don't get it. If they exist, why don't they help us?"

Jack's smile faded. Looking into the boy's imploring face, all he could think of was Pitch. Contrary to what the Boogeyman said, Jack _had_ learned his lessons well. Though there was still a lot of fear in the world, Pitch had only done what his nature dictated. It was the great tide of existence, the heartbeat of them all, the truest lesson of life: there had to be a great sorrow for there to be great prosperity, evil for goodness, dark for light. _You have to lose everything to realize how much you have,_ the small voice whispered in Pitch's smooth, dark tones. Jack's heart clenched with grief, but he forced none of it to show on his face as he sunk down to Jamie's level.

"Because there are two sides of the world. There's dark parts to it, but there's some bright ones, too. There has to be a balance between them, otherwise there's chaos. You know why there was no Easter and Christmas this year? It's because the goodness of the world's in trouble, Jamie. The balance has tipped. We need your help to save it, you and Sophie. I want to fix things, but I can't do it alone. Will you help me?"

A determined expression crossed the boy's face. He nodded once, as if making the most important choice in his life. "Tell us what to do."

Jack's chest ached again, except not from pain. A fierce love for the boy flooded through him. Jack had known the kid was special, had felt it deep in his bones. Looking into Jamie's determination reminded him there was still hope in the world. Hope for him. He crouched down and looked at the two kids, the first two who ever laid eyes on him. The craziest idea was taking root in his mind, refusing to let go. He let a slow smile spread across his face. They would have to move quickly. Jack and Sophie leaned in as he lowered his voice to a conspirator's whisper.

"I think it's time you remember what wonder feels like. What do you say to a trip to the North Pole?"

"Wait. Like as in, the North Pole where Santa lives?"

"You got it, kiddo. And I'll show you not just him—the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny, too. I'm sure they're dying to meet you both. Now, you'll need to dress warm . . . ly."

Jack trailed to stop, realizing he was crouching in an empty room, both Sophie and Jamie already disappearing down the hall. He found them by the coat racks, donning their heaviest snow pants and winter jackets. Jamie helped Sophie wrap herself in a scarf so big it seemed to swallow her entire head. Only her eyes peeked out, giving the impression of a tie-dyed mummy. Jamie grinned up at Jack, nearly bursting at the seams with excitement. Jack stared at the boy's enthusiasm, humbled and a little awed. Had he been under Pitch's influence for so long he'd forgotten the resilience of a child? _This is what the Guardians protect,_ he thought, quiet under the enormity of the epiphany. _This willingness to believe everything will get better in the end._ Without another word he scooped both of them up and blasted into the air.

It felt like the journey to the Pole was over before it could begin: Jack raced as fast as he could, keeping tabs on his two passengers. They never complained once, though he suspected Sophie fell asleep somewhere over the Hudson Bay. Poor kid was plumb tuckered out. Jamie was so abuzz with _wows!_ and _lookit that!_ Jack could almost feel himself growing stronger each passing second with the kid. When he reached the workshop he entered the same way through the skylight, taking care to deposit his passengers safely. He took one step in North's workshop and instantly sensed something was different. There were warm Christmas lights all around, giving a rosy, homey feel. All the dust was gone. A fresh, crisp smell of fresh paint snapped in the nose, along with the distinct aroma of gingerbreads baking. Jack led his google-eyed charges towards the sound of belted singing. The singing broke off into a din of explosive Russian oaths, hardly discernible over a resounding crash of metalware. Jack winced.

"Uh, North?"

"Jack?" There was the loudest crash of all. It sounded like an oven toppled over. "Is that you?"

North stumbled out of what had to be a kitchen, his beard and front covered in flour, coughing and sputtering. And elf tottered after him with a broom twice its size. The Guardian was leaning heavily on a wooden cane. When he noticed the jaw-dropped forms of Jamie and Sophie he froze, eyes bulging.

"Children," he breathed. "How did—" If possible, the eyes grew bigger. "Jack. They can see you!"

Jack smiled, experiencing a small thrill of smug satisfaction. "Not just me."

"Santa Claus?" It was Jamie, sounding almost catatonic with happiness. North's face split in two as he beamed down at Jamie and Sophie in turn.

"Ha, hello little ones! Come, come, you must be hungry! Warm yourselves in the kitchen—watch your step!"

One by one they were ushered into the kitchen, where a mountain of food awaited them. There were layers of cookies, all manners of cakes, pies, glazed carrots and frosted gingerbread houses. It was warm, almost toasty. After a moment of inspection Jack saw the source of all the heat came from a giant cast iron oven. He edged around it, masking a cringe. Jamie helped his sister out of her bundled snow clothes. Sophie squealed and raced after the broom-wielding elf. It stood no chance: within seconds it was being snuggled and hauled across the floor, red outfit mopping up the flour as it went. Jack laughed along with the others, though his churning mind refused to let him enjoy the wondrous occasion. He was almost relieved when North pulled him aside.

"You were so right," North said.

"Huh? About what?"

"This! All of this!" the burly Guardian of Wonder said, gesticulating to the blazing oven, to Jamie helping himself to one of the chocolate chip cookies cooling on wire racks, to Sophie giggling on the floor. "When you left, I realized how foolish I was. I was letting Pitch win. Ha! No more! I start cleaning and fixing. Soon some elves come visit! Yetis too." He stopped, fixing Jack with a warm, grateful beam, placing a heavy, flour-covered hand on his shoulder. "You returned my faith in myself. I thank you, Jack Frost."

Jack tried to shrug off the gratitude with an offhand grin, unaccustomed to its weight. "Forget about it, North. Besides, without your advice, I don't think I would've gone after those memories." His grin faded.

 _I trusted you._ Pitch, beneath him, motionless, pained. _I believed you._

North seemed to sense the sudden pall around Jack and removed his hand. "What happened after? How did you get away from Pitch?"

Jack looked away with a grimace. "It doesn't matter now. North, we have little time. We need to get to the others. They need to be believed in, and fast. Pitch has Baby Tooth."

"We can help! We can—"

"No. This . . . I need to do by myself. You and the others need to regain your strength. I can buy you time."

"You don't have to be alone, Jack," North said, but Jack was already shaking his head.

"For this I do. Please. Trust me."

Jack didn't budge, not even when the burly bear of a man frowned at him. At last North conceded with an ill but honest grace. "Fine, fine, you face Pitch alone. But when I get my strength back, I show him thing or two!"

"Deal. Now, do you still have those snow globes lying around?"

North burst out into laughter. "Ha! Wonderful! You—" he pointed to an elf who had escaped Sophie's clutches— "fetch the snow globe!"

In no time the elf returned, skittering around the floor as Sophie's enthusiastic hugs systematically squeezed its comrade's life. North reached down and took the shimmering ball. He looked at Jack.

"Where to?" he asked.

Jack steeled himself. "Tooth's Palace."

The words were said, the snow globe was cast, and in less time than it took to draw breath the tiny gathering stepped into the windy, empty mountain cavern. Early-morning light streamed in. Jack made sure Jamie and Sophie stuck by him, staff prepared to defend them at a moment's notice. It was a little easier to stomach the ruins of Tooth's Palace this time, except Jack could tell it struck North straight to his core. The jolly red cheeks paled six degrees as North gazed around, muttering what sounded like an old Russian prayer under his breath.

"What happened?" Jamie asked. He crowded Jack's legs, eyes round. "Why is everything so . . . dusty?"

It wasn't dust. It was the remains of Tooth's Palace, crumbled to nothing. "Kids stopped believing in her," Jack said. He tried to head straight, so he wouldn't see the destruction around him. The emptiness was so profound even his thoughts had echoes.

"How? Everyone knows about the Tooth Fairy."

Jack caught North's weighted regard. He was spared answering when a feathered head peeked around a mountain of glittering gold-and-purple sand.

North laughed. "Tooth!"

"North?" The Tooth Fairy moved into view, at her heels her entire workforce. Jack's stomach flip-flopped as the tiny green fairies reminded him of Baby Tooth, caught in Pitch's gray clutches. He tensed, remembering how their last encounter went. If possible, Tooth looked more awful, her feathers dull as if coated with dust. She was stumbling worse than before, her little feet cut and bleeding. Jack noticed with anguish one of her wings was still bent from Pitch's blow. He still couldn't believe he'd almost let Pitch kill her, just as he'd done Sandy. _I was blind to so many things,_ Jack thought. He stiffened when her beautiful eyes landed on him. He could sense her open confusion as if it were a weight. It wrapped around his neck like an iron shawl. Then her gaze dipped down, and like North, her eyes bulged.

"Children!" She instantly began to pat herself down, trying to hide the bare patches where her feathers had fallen out. All around her the little fairies began to do the same, squeaking in distress. Sophie's unrestrained laughter cut through the growing panic.

"Birdies!" She abandoned the elf still snuggled in her grasp and raced forward. It was the parting of the Red Sea, except this sea was green and moved on hundreds of tiny little feet. Tooth stared in unabashed amazement as the little girl chased after her fairies. Sophie stopped long enough to peer up at Tooth and say, "Pretty." Then she was off again, Jamie close on her heels.

It was as if a cloud had lifted from the Tooth's Fairy's shoulders. She stopped trying to hide herself and smiled, and despite the grime and weariness and despair, it was breathtaking to watch. "She believes in me!" Tooth said, smile threatening to engulf her face. She barked a little bell-like laugh. "I'm believed in!" She spun to North. "Oh, North, thank you!"

The burly Guardian shook his head. "Don't thank me. Thank Jack."

"Jack?" Tooth turned to look at the winter spirit. He was unprepared for the relieved, warm regard. She bowed her head, and though it was naked without her yellow plume, she had the regality of a queen. "I knew you'd come back to us."

 _Not quite,_ he thought. They still didn't know what he'd done to Pitch, and he was in no hurry to enlighten them. He tried to hide his discomfort with the same offhand grin he'd flashed North.

"Sorry about before," he said, quietly. "I'm glad Pitch didn't hurt you, uh, too badly."

The feathered queen waved a small hand in the air. "Think nothing of it." She grimaced. "When I see that jerk again, I'm going to knock his teeth out!"

"Tooth, Tooth," North said, patting the air in a _quietly, quietly!_ gesture, wincing. "There are _children_ around."

"Oh! Oops, sorry. I guess I'm just so excited! I haven't seen a human child in so long . . . my manners are quite atrocious, you're right. I just hate Pitch so much! Why are you guys here?"

"To collect you," North said. He rubbed his belly. "We're going to take back what Pitch took."

Her eyes shone, her next smile wolfish. It may've been the trick of the light, but it felt like it seemed her eyeteeth were longer, sharper, than Jack remembered. "Wonderful! I can't wait to see the look on Pitch's face when we do."

After rounding up Sophie— _Alright, stinker, let's leave these girls alone_ —the magic portal re-opened. Jack hadn't seen what had become of Bunnymund's warren or of the Guardian himself since Antarctica. Out of all of the Guardians, he'd been the one Jack was least eager to reconnect with. Though time had softened much of the harsh words, Jack still found his stomach cramping with anxiety. The giant Easter kangaroo never did like him much, especially not after the blizzard of '68. Though they had swopped olive branches that day in the warren, the smashed eggshells littering the tunnels had make short work of their peace. Would Bunnymund forgive him as easily as the others? Jack braced himself for the worst as he stepped through the portal. A dusty wasteland greeted him. The once vibrant, verdant glade was now the colour of drought. The springs that had bubbled were parched beds. The grass was dry and withered beneath their feet as they entered deeper into the warren, past wizened stumps whose dead branches twisted in the still air like corpse fingers. _Easter is about new life and hope,_ Bunnymund had said. As Jack looked around, he realized both had died here. Even the once-sweet scent of fresh grass was gone; dust coated the inside of the nose, stale and ticklish. No one said anything, as solemn as tombstones. Even Sophie seemed subdued, huddling around her brother.

A cry from Jamie pulled Jack out of his thoughts. "Hey, what's that?" the boy asked. He pointed to what looked like a brown tumbleweed. Jack moved closer, switching grips on his staff. He went ahead of the group, daring to hope. But when he stopped right next to it, he saw it was just that: a tumbleweed. He sighed and poked at it with his shepherd's hook.

" _Yarrr!_ "

Jack looked up in time to catch a face-full of gray fur. Before he knew it he was being pummeled on all sides, his nose and mouth smothered. Sometime swiped his cheek, stinging. Jack reached up and pried the squirming, punching thing from his face and held it at arm's length. He found himself staring into the enraged face of a pint-sized Bunnymund. Jack didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He did a combination of both, his voice almost strangled as he struggled not to burst out in distraught laughter.

"Bunny! Bunny, relax, it's just me!"

"Why d'ya think I'm attacking, you bloody whacker?"

"Jeeze, Cottontail! Nice to see you too!"

The squirming intensified. Jack would've lost hold had it not been for North's steadying hands. If anything Bunnymund struggled harder, nearly squealing in rage. Jack was still trying to control the hysterical laughter bursting to get out. It wracked his body in silent, painful waves. The more he tried to stop, the more he tried to compose himself, the more the laughter came. The last time he'd seen Bunnymund he was over six feet tall, rugged and brusque. This little ball of fluff was no bigger than a standard rabbit, and just as soft, too. Beneath the fur Jack could feel the ribs and spine of the miniature Guardian as if they were fishbones. He didn't realize Tooth had moved in until she pressed shoulders against him, her hands adding to the effort. The three of them held Bunnymund until fatigue, not lack of rage, quieted him down. Jack could feel the rabbit's heart pounding like a jackhammer against his palm. The furious glare was still aimed his way, the ears pinned back, still brimming with vinegar. The palpable anger deflated the absurd hilarity. Jack looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

"Is that . . . is that the Easter Bunny?"

The awed voice drew everyone's attention. Bunnymund's ears shot up as if electrocuted. Jack moved out of the way to give the rabbit a better view of the kids staring bug-eyed at him. If possible, the heartbeat quickened between his fingers.

"Ankle-biters? Here?" The Guardian's voice sounded forlorn, adrift.

"Here to see you," Jack said. With a nod at the others, they together put Bunnymund down. Jack hastily stepped back, but the rabbit seemed to have lost interest in him. He stared agog at Jamie and Sophie, eyes only growing bigger when Jamie whistled between his teeth and said,

"This is too awesome."

" _Bunny_!"

Sophie made her move. With the speed and grace only a rabbit could possess, Bunnymund leapt up into the safety of North's arms. Despite the bouncing, giggling girlchild struggling to hug him, the Guardian seemed close to hyperventilating with wonder.

"Wha—? How? How did—?"

Tooth came to Bunnymund's rescue. "It's all Jack's doing, Bunny. He's the one who brought Jamie and Sophie to us. Kids are going to start believing in us again! It's a good thing too, because it's starting to get drafty without my feathers."

This seemed to confuse the diminutive Guardian even more. He frowned at Jack, for the first time an emotion other than anger gleaming through.

"You . . . you made them believe in me?"

Jack shrugged. "You can thank me later."

"Jack, your cheek!"

The winter spirit reached up. When he pulled his fingers away, the tips were bright with blood. "I've survived worse."

"Oh. Sorry bout that," Bunnymund said. "I guess. Maybe. Heat of the moment, y'know."

A silence fell amongst the companions, one that strangely didn't need breaking. They were all a little broken in some way, not quite themselves, but as Jack looked at the defenders of hopes, wonders, and dreams, he felt some of the numbness inside him begin to heal. Finally, _finally,_ he was fixing the mess he helped cause. He looked down and found Jamie smiling at him. Jack's expression softened. This was what he needed to protect, this was why here was here, why he was Jack Frost. The sense of purpose was almost overwhelming in its conviction, driving all other thoughts away until he was left with a fierce, almost painful love. Love for Jamie and Sophie, love for the Guardians, and lastly, love for himself. He'd been so rudderless for so long, so adrift, the weight of his knowledge almost left him breathless. When he thought about Pitch, he found his anger was gone. _This is what he was searching for, too,_ Jack thought. A calmness descended upon his shoulders, wrapping around him like a shroud. He knew what he had to do now, and though it filled him with a strange, wistful sadness, he knew he had no choice.

"C'mon, guys," he said. "Let's get these kids home."

 

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.s.

 

.

 

It was still nighttime in Burgess by the time they arrived, the air crisp and clean with the scent of winter. Sophie was falling asleep in North's arms, head nodding into her giant scarf. The elf she'd been hugging kept giving her wary glances, but he was safe. Jack crouched in front of the boy, experiencing the familiar thrill as the kid gave him his full attention. Maybe one day he'd take being seen for granted, but for now, it filled him with a vast contentment.

"Jamie, here's the part where you can help us. You see, without your belief, we're nothing. I want you to tell your friends, tell everyone. Spread the word: the Guardians are real."

Jamie clicked his heels together and saluted. "Aye aye, Captain!" He glanced at his snoring sister and gave a sheepish smile. "She's going to have to go to bed first."

Jamie took Sophie from North's arms and helped her to her feet. She was more asleep than awake, but enough of her remained to toddle alongside her brother. Jack watched them go, wishing they didn't have to. For some reason he thought of the sister in his memories, young and scared and filled with hope. Jamie had the same brown eyes.

"You helped us," North said, before Jamie came back. "All of us. You made us believe." Though he was still leaning heavily on his cane, it seemed a spark had been ignited in the burly chest. In all of their chests. They were gathered in a half-circle before him, gauging his reaction.

Jack shook his head. "Not like you guys helped me," he said. He looked up to the yellowing moon. It was mute and distant.

"We could use your help fighting fear, Jack," Tooth said. "We could use a Guardian like you."

The familiar sadness returned, settling into his scars like snow upon a rocky ground, covering what lay beneath. "I'm sorry, but I can't be a Guardian. I'm not . . . I'm not ready. There's things—terrible things—I need to atone for."

"Really? Like what. Shock us." It was Bunnymund, little paws crossed over his chest.

Jack didn't rise to the bait. He never would. He decided his greatest shame would remain his own demon, perhaps for a great, long while. Would he ever achieve redemption for what he'd done to Pitch? He let his silence speak for himself. As the quietness persisted, Bunnymund's aggression melted into profound surprise. His arms dropped.

"Oh. You're actually serious."

"I'll take care of Pitch and save Baby Tooth," Jack said. "I'll buy you time to get your strength back."

Without waiting for a response he leapt into the air and zoomed upwards, away from them, away from Jamie. There was one last place he needed to go before this was over, and he flew there with the speed of a rocket, following the familiar route. The houses disappeared. The town bled away. He found the abandoned bed frame and the tunnel beneath it, landing on the snowy ground with the quietness of an owl. The moon cast long shadows, but none of its light seemed to penetrate the entrance to Pitch's lair. _Then again, nothing bright ever could,_ Jack thought suddenly. He took one last deep breath of fresh, wintery air before plunging down. He knew every twist and turn by heart, and when he landed in the main cavern of Pitch's realm, he wasn't surprised to find Pitch by his globe, Baby Tooth in hand. The Nightmare King whirled around at the sight of him and drew to his fullest height, something like a perverse sneer crossing his face.

"Well, well, well. Jack Frost. Back so soon? You're dumber than I thought." Pitch raised the hand with Baby Tooth, fingers spasming.

"No, wait! Pitch, wait," Jack said, crouching and raising a palm. "I'm not here for her." _Forgive me, Baby Tooth._ He didn't dare look at the fairy.

Pitch's eyes shone like greasy coins, reflective in the half-light. He strode forward in an predator's stalk. "Oh? Then what are you here for, then?"

"For you."

The other drew up short, hissing. "Do you take me for a fool? Fighting me, here, in my own realm? I told you what would happen if you tried."

Baby Tooth began to wail before her squeaks were choked off. Jack forced himself not to listen, forced himself not to react, but it was almost agony. Pitch was smiling faintly, eyes half-lidded, placid, as if unaware he was squeezing the little fairy to death.

"No, no, no, wait, wait, hold on. Hold on. That's not why I came at all. I came to say you were right. You're right, okay?"

Pitch cocked his head slowly, lips pursing in a mockery of contemplation. A heartbeat passed. Jack dared not let his relief show when Baby Tooth began to take in big, whooping gasps of air. The winter spirit decided to press his luck and moved in closer, still half-crouched, hand still held out as if to stay a raging beast. "You did teach me. Though it was your toughest lesson of all, I think I need it. I understand, now."

Pitch stared at him, eyes narrowed and shrewd. " _Hnn._ Is that so." His pupils shrank. "Your cheek. Get in a fight, have we?"

"A gift from the Easter Bunny," Jack said. "I told them I wasn't going to be a Guardian."

"Oh?" Pitch's voice was the colour and texture of oil. "I thought that was what you wanted." His expression darkened. Baby Tooth squeaked as the grip tightened indiscernibly, teasing. "You drove _that_ point home."

Jack's mouth twitched, unable to hide the flush of shame on his cheeks. He could feel Pitch's heavy gaze trying to delve into his soul and root out the lies, but Jack had none to hide. Though slightly out of context, what he said was the truth: he wouldn't be a Guardian. He was living in the _after_ , a little less what he was. By now Pitch's eyes were almost slits. Now it was he who drew closer still, the distance between them tightening. Though Jack still held his staff, he didn't so much as clutch a finger around it. He didn't move an inch as the Boogeyman faded into the darkness to reappear exactly behind him, warm breath on his cheek.

"I bet they don't know." The words caressed the shell of his ear, low and invasive. Jack tried not to shiver. Pitch continued his circling. He _tch_ 'd softly, as if reprimanding a mistake. "Ohhh, how it all makes sense now. You can't bear the thought of them knowing, so now you're crawling back to me."

"You're all I have left."

Something hitched behind Pitch's coiled mask before he could hide it. "Think I'll fall for that trick again, do you?" the Boogeyman hissed. His face was dark with sullen anger, teeth half-bared as if he were a whipped dog.

Jack shook his head. "No," he said, shoving all of his desperation in that one word. "No more tricks. You have me," he said, saying the words that would seal their fates, the words he knew would ruin Pitch because, deep down, they'd already ruined him. "You have all of me."

The last reserve holding Pitch back melted. The Boogeyman closed the distance between them and sunk down to capture Jack's lips with his own. Jack let Pitch have control, the searing tongue ravaging his mouth. The pace was angry, punishing, teeth sharp and biting, but Jack rode through it. He'd forgotten how much he missed the way the Boogeyman tasted, dark and slightly bitter, which only fueled his sorrow more. He let Pitch shove him into a wall, the rocks digging into his shoulders and spine. Jack poured all of his grief and heartbreak, anger and regret into the kiss, as if by sheer osmosis Pitch could know what he felt. Hands were riding up his shirt, almost hot against his chilled skin. A knee came up between his legs, holding him in place. It was almost easy to unburden Baby Tooth from the wandering hands and secret her in his hoodie. She was shaking in his hand. Pitch didn't notice, too intent on grinding him into dust on the rocks.

When they broke away, breathing shuttering, Pitch saw something in Jack's eyes. He froze, his own widening. _I'm sorry,_ Jack thought. The Boogeyman was tearing away, running, but it was too late. Huge walls of ice exploded from the ground, the air freezing solid. Pitch collided with one of them and crashed to the ground. He was on his feet a moment later, rounding on Jack with a vicious snarl. The winter spirit rolled out of the way of a cloud of needled dreamsand like a paratrooper, the rocks above his head nearly cracking in two with the force. There was no thought as he leapt through the last hole through the dome of ice. Pitch was like quicksilver, but he reacted too slowly. Before he could follow Jack through, the winter spirit threw up another jagged wall, separating them, leaving Pitch behind the cage of ice.

All went quiet. Jack landed on the ground, eyes wide as he stared at his twisting creation. It was similar to the one in Antarctica, but instead of towering up, it leaned into the rocks of the cavern, trapping Pitch inside. The Boogeyman was nothing but a distorted ripple, wavering as he paced back and forth. Soon the stillness became broken as he began rage behind the ice, his roars muffled. Jack looked up and found the Nightmare legion crashing toward him in a dark tide of despair, their whinnying screams resounding through every corner of the cavern. Jack unleashed the fury of winter, evoking the blizzard. Within seconds the first wave were frozen solid, shattering on impact. The ice was death, blazing through the ranks like brittle wildfire, its touch dissolving the Nightmares. They cascaded on him like a glittering black rain, the sounds of their deaths twinkling like tiny bells. When the sand and snow cleared he saw the survivors were hanging back, pawing at the remains of their fallen comrades, molten volcanic eyes baleful and hating. They dared no closer. They dissolved into the darkness, leaving their master to Jack's whim and mercy. They were a part of Pitch, and shared his own tenacious desire for survival.

Piles of snow and twisted ice sculptures littered the cavern. Some snowflakes were falling, but Jack knew they were just residual effects. There was a curious emptiness in his chest as he placed a hand on the ice cage. The ice was too thick and too mixed in with dreamsand for him to pick out Pitch, but he knew the Nightmare King was there. He withdrew his hand.

Jack pulled out the shivering little bundle from his pocket. Baby Tooth peered up at him and chirruped, eyes wide. He smiled softly down at her and clutched her to his chest, suddenly weary beyond belief.

"C'mon. Let's get out of here."

Baby Tooth trilled her agreement.

 

.

 

.s.

 

.

 

Months passed. Winter melted into spring, giving rise to Easter. Jack heard through North that Bunnymund was back to his boomerang-throwing, six-foot-tall self. It would be some time before the Guardians reached the height of their power, but Jack wasn't worried. He knew the balance of the world would right itself out, just as it'd done countless times before. Though Tooth and the others were curious to know what happened to Pitch, they seemed to sense it was sore subject with Jack, and allowed sleeping dogs to lie.

Ever the constant companion, Baby Tooth chose to remain with him. "Keep her close," Tooth had said as blessing, just before Jack left the re-building Palace. She had to shout in his ear to be heard over the construction. "So you won't forget _._ "

"Thanks, Tooth," Jack said. He was about to tell her he'd never forget again, but by then North pressed a wrong button and half the elves were flying into the pools. The fairies flew in an uproar. Tooth zoomed up to harangue North, leaving Jack to smile faintly and disappear.

The Guardians' attentions drew from him the night Sandy was resurrected over Burgess. His return sent ripples through their awareness, drawing them to his side. They surrounded the little Guardian with showers of happiness and bantering, their merrymaking drawing the winter spirit near. Jack waited, unable to breach their reunion, watching as Sandy soaked his companions' presences, his golden glow nearly blinding. It was only when the others drifted away did Jack peel himself from the darkness and come forward. If the Sandman was surprised, he showed no sign. He greeted Jack he would an old friend, and Jack almost came undone at the simple gesture of kindness. Jack could say nothing, but unlike the others, the diminutive Guardians was used to silence and all of its nuances. He simply patted the ground next to him and allowed Jack to sit next him, knees to his chest, just soaking in the golden light. When Sandy began dozing at his shoulder, Jack began to talk in halting tones about what he and Pitch shared, not focusing on a single moment, but the great whole of them. He didn't know how long he spoke. He didn't dare see if Sandy was paying attention, but kept looking forward. It eased some of the pressure of the knot in his throat, and when he left the Guardian, he liked not knowing if Sandy heard him.

Pitch wouldn't trouble them for awhile. It would take several more months, maybe even years, for him to break free of his icy prison, which would give the Guardians plenty of time to return belief, hope, and wonder back into the children. No; Pitch had done his part. The Boogeyman was no more evil than death was, or disease. He was a vital part of the heartbeat of them all, a spoke in the great wheel of life. Jack drifted on the winds, watching happiness return to the world. He visited Jamie when he could, relishing the boy's enormous smile. In those times he wondered if he could have remained happy with Pitch. Though their desires were the same, their paths were different. Jack understood that now. He understood many things he hadn't before.

But despite these thoughts, sometimes Jack couldn't help but remember the desolate stretches of ice, and the offer that had been made there.

 

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.

 

_._

 

_end_


End file.
